


The Sins of Our Fathers

by inflomora, noirhound



Series: Death is A Debt (We All Must Pay) [1]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types, Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ancient Greece, Alternate Universe - Historical, Assassin's Creed: Odyssey, Awesome Howling Commandos, BAMF Bucky Barnes, BAMF Peggy Carter, BAMF Steve Rogers, Boats and Ships, Bucky Barnes Has Nightmares, Canon-Typical Violence, Hydra (Marvel), Inspired by Assassin's Creed, Love Confessions, M/M, Memory Loss, Mild Gore, Minor Canonical Character(s), Mission Fic, POV Bucky Barnes, Pining Bucky Barnes, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, References to Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, Sam Wilson is a Gift, The Tesseract (Marvel), he switches between the two and while that may not make sense now itll make sense later, i mean they're assassins so what are you gonna do, if you squint really hard you can faintly see falsworth/rumlow but that was unintentional, possible spoilers for the game, probably not as historically accurate as i thought but oh well, the howlies are bucky's big chaotic family theyre irritating as hell but he loves them to pieces, they go on a mission is what im saying, you don't need to have played assassin's creed: odyssey to be able to enjoy this!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-03
Updated: 2019-06-03
Packaged: 2020-04-07 17:19:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 33,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19089571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inflomora/pseuds/inflomora, https://archiveofourown.org/users/noirhound/pseuds/noirhound
Summary: His family called him Bucky.The arenas in Athens called him the Winter Soldier.The Spartan Brotherhood calls him Iakov. He defends the light from the dark that once coursed through his veins.When the location of the Tesseract—a powerful Piece of Eden—is made known to the Brotherhood by a pair of Assassins from Athens, it is up to Iakov and his men to secure it before the Order of Hydra does, and it will take the cooperation of both Bureaus to succeed. His job is not made easier when he finds himself falling for his commanding officer, a certain blond Athenian Assassin who hides a powerful secret.But they are not the only ones after the Tesseract. With the fate of the world hanging in the balance, a dangerous enemy looming unseen over their shoulders, and nobody left to trust, they must find and bring the Tesseract to Athens before it falls into the wrong hands—that is, if they manage to survive the trip.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> First of all I would like to thank my wonderful wonderful beta [aeremaee](https://aeremaee.tumblr.com) for her priceless input and all her wonderful comments that are like 80% of the reason why I'm completely in love with this AU. She described the fic as "an MCU story with Assassin's Creed: Odyssey dressings", which is exactly what it is. I'm so lucky that we got to work together, and I'm excited to write more greek boyfriend shenanigans with you soon!
> 
> I want to thank also, my artist [Inflomora](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inflomora/profile), whose amazing art inspired this fic, and I will always be grateful that she let me borrow her toys and play with them. It's been a really good time.
> 
> Huge huge props to the incomparable RBB Mods who have gone and knocked another bang out of the park (again). As ever, they leave me in awe.
> 
> And finally I want to thank a very special hall monitor, without whose aggressive compliments neither I nor this fic would be here today. You're the bucket to my stove, and the gatsby to my nick. Love you 3000.
> 
> * * *
> 
> Alright, since this a/n is getting way too long already, I'll make the rest of it quick.
> 
> [Here](https://learnodo-newtonic.com/ancient-greek-weapons) is a list of a few Greek weapons that appear in this story, [here](https://www.ancienthistorylists.com/greek-history/top-10-famous-clothes-ancient-greece/) are some of the clothes that are worn in the story so you can get kind of an idea at what I was going for.
> 
> Most of them have Grecian first names (for example "Iakov" is the Greek version of the name "James") but I've left their last names alone in case it got too confusing. 
> 
> This is a little guide vis a vis the military titles that I've used:  
> Captain: Lochagos  
> Sergeant: Enōmotarches  
> Lieutenant: Pentēkontēr  
> Commander: Starategos  
> Second-in-command: Syntagmatarkhis
> 
> [Here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6ZBHdSlFwx77n3nchIQGpv?si=TE5VRlDqTvyM0liFAHsMcA) is a playlist for songs that I listened to on loop while writing this; feel free to take a listen if you're in the mood.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iakov wins a dagger, and there are strangers in the war room.

The sand in the arena was compacted down into a flat plain of gold by decades of battle-hardened feet pounding across it. It was mottled with the deep copper of old blood, but then again it had been for years, long before Iakov Barnes had ever set foot inside the arena.

Iakov—the other Iakov, Morita was his name—had hesitated for a second too long, and it had proved to be his undoing. They had been sparring relentlessly for hours, and the sun was climbing steadily to its peak. Iakov had feigned lunging to the right and Morita had naturally prepared to parry, but at the last second Iakov struck his unguarded left, and Iakov’s kopis had arced only once before it nicked Morita neatly across the upper arm.

Morita stumbled forward. He clutched at the dark scarlet blooming through his tunic, head bowed and one knee in the warm sand. “I yield,” he said, chest heaving as he regained his breath, but Iakov could hear him smile. He grinned as he sheathed the blade and helped the other to his feet. Iakov’s left shoulder had begun to ache earlier that morning, but the exercise had managed to ease out some of the pain from it, and for that he was thankful.

“That's four for five, my friend. I think I've won our little wager, don't you? And if I remember correctly I am owed that knife you're so proud of.”

Morita rolled his eyes. “No need to be a sore winner, Barnes,” he said, but the amusement in his face betrayed his tone. They began to walk to the barracks, matching each other stride for stride.

Iakov elbowed Morita in his uninjured side. “Come, now. I think I’m entitled to a little gloating.” Iakov thought for a moment and added, “Then again, you haven’t beat me in a while. It's probably just age.” Morita shot him a glare as Iakov patted his arm comfortingly. “Don't worry. It happens to the best of us.”

“By Hades,” Morita sighed, shaking his head. “You really are one of the most annoying, insufferable men I've ever had the misfortune of meeting, did you know that?”

Iakov put on a charming smile. “Why, you flatter me, good sir,” he said, batting his eyelashes, and Morita laughed despite himself. The corridors were cool and draughty, and their pace was leisurely.

When they entered the barracks the bunks were all empty; the others must either be on patrol or performing drills in the courtyards.

The grounds they lived and trained in were ancient and rather vast, most of it underground, expanded by each new generation of Assassins who occupied it. The main doorway was inscribed with the word  _ Sanctuary _ , and that was its name. The arena and courtyards were open-air enclosures, because no matter how safe they were in their maze of tunnels and catacombs, there was a certain thrill in sun-wrought skin and sweat-slicked brows accompanied by the sharp clang of steel-on-steel that underground sparring rooms simply could not replicate. Iakov didn't complain; he preferred the outside, anyway. Most of the structure, the barracks included, were below ground-level, and the arena, the stables, and a few courtyards were the only evidence of the Sanctuary on the surface.

Morita settled himself in his bunk and began to clean and bandage the cut. As he did, he relayed to Iakov news from the city, brought to him by his contacts within the temple. Mostly it was the usual drivel muddled with gossip about the sons and daughters of political leaders that Morita thought was particularly scandalous. There was the occasional rumour that might be of some import to the Brotherhood, but those were few and far between. Iakov listened attentively all the same, sitting cross-legged on the floor as he carefully sharpened his kopis. His shoulder had grown stiff, and he began to knead it absently.

Just then, a man stumbled into the barracks. His face was flushed, and the hood of his himation was thrown back from his forehead. “Barnes! I've been looking for you  _ everywhere _ ,” he panted, and Iakov raised an eyebrow as he slid the kopis in his lap back into its sheath.

“Where else would I be besides here or the arena, Falsworth?”

“You - oh, never mind,” Falsworth sighed, waving his hand in the air. “Carter wishes to confer with you. There are guests she wants to introduce to you, I believe.”

Iakov sat up a little straighter at the mention of her name. Carter was the head of the Peloponnesian Brotherhood. No matter that she was a woman; she was as wise as she was ruthless, and had garnered a reputation for herself as one of the most formidable leaders of the Brotherhood since its conception in this part of Greece. There were stories of her that had gone down as legend. Someone once told Iakov that she was a daughter of Athena herself, and really, he had no trouble believing that.

“Guests? What guests? She wants me to meet them right now?” Iakov asked. “Did she say who?”

Falsworth shot him a dirty look. “Don't ask stupid questions, Barnes; of  _ course _ she wouldn't tell me. Whoever they are, they're in the war room with her.” Falsworth passed a hand over his eyes. “I can't believe I was pulled from patrols for  _ this _ ,” he muttered, stalking off.

Iakov exchanged a glance with Morita, who simply shrugged and went back to his wound dressing.

Iakov rose to his feet and tied the second of the kopis sheaths to his belt. He was already wearing the flowing crimson gowns and thunder gray linothorax of the Spartan Assassins from when he had been patrolling earlier, before he had been challenged to an—albeit friendly—sparring match by Morita, and had not had time to put on lighter clothing. He hadn't even gotten the chance to remove his bracers or greaves yet. His plumed helmet still sat firmly on his head.

Morita handed him a plain leather scabbard, about the size of his forearm and worn about the seams with years of loving touches. “A wager is a wager,” he said simply, without sorrow or regret, and Iakov smiled. He tucked it into his left greave, fitting it snugly against his ankle, and headed for the door. “It would do you good to be nice to those guests,” Morita called.

Iakov glanced over his shoulder, pausing in the doorway. “Have I ever been anything but?” he asked, grinning, and hurried off to the war room. Behind him, he could hear Morita scoff.

* * *

 

Iakov’s blades were a comforting weight at his hips, and his hands lingered on the corded leather hilts briefly before he rapped his knuckles sharply on the door of the war room, which they used for strategy meetings and for the exchange of information from scouts. He kept his helmet on.

“Enter,” came the crisp reply from within, and Iakov pushed open the doors with both hands. The room was wide and circular, with walls of stone and torches in bronze braziers throwing dim light and shadows everywhere. The air was thick and distinctly mildewed. In the centre of the room sat a circular stone table, smoothed by hands long gone. Behind it stood four figures in heavy himations. Crimson gowns swept out beneath the hem of two of the figures: Carter, likely, and another Spartan whom Iakov recognised to be Alexander, his stepfather. Iakov gave him a small, firm nod by way of greeting, and Alexander returned it.

It was much colder inside than it was in the rest of the Sanctuary, and Iakov had to suppress a shiver that came with the chill of mistrust spiderwebbing beneath his skin. He knelt and bowed his head respectfully. A moment later, he felt a careful pair of hands touch his shoulders for a second, and it was the permission he needed to rise to his feet slowly.

“You summoned me, my lady?” Iakov asked. Carter stood in front of him, dressed in armor like his, and her dark hair was secured away from her face in regal braids, in the kind of way that most people could only dream of emulating. Her lips were blood red, immaculately so.

“Indeed I did, Enōmotarches,” she answered in her sharpened accent. “Let us begin, shall we? I am of the opinion that we have wasted enough time as is.”  _ Right to business, then,  _ thought Iakov as he took his place at the table, standing at Carter's left hand, Alexander on her right. The two others in the room positioned themselves across the table from the Spartans. Their rough brown hoods were drawn away from their faces, but the dully glinting bronze of their helmets managed to obscure their features well. Neither party moved to take off their headgear.

Their helmets were not plumed with red flourishes like Iakov and Alexander’s, or fanned by intricate metalwork like Carter's. They were smooth on the top, sloping down over the nose and curling under the eyes to meet in the middle. A heavy leather strap secured it under the chin. Iakov caught the flash of a bronze breastplate when one of them shifted their stance, and frowned. What was the nature of this meeting?

“You are aware, Enōmotarches, that our primary goal has been locating a very specific and very powerful Piece of Eden these many years, are you not?” Carter began, the corners of her mouth tight.

“The Tesseract, my lady?” he asked, confused.

“Quite.”

“Since we learnt of its existence, yes,” Iakov replied, slightly frowning. He'd been put in charge of the team that was looking for the pieces of the map that would lead them to the Tesseract. It had been his mission for years now. Why would he not know of it?

Carter's voice snapped him out of his reverie. “Why is it that we have been unable to secure it?”

Iakov paused for a minute to gather his thoughts, wondering briefly where she was going with this. “To my knowledge, my lady, we simply do not have enough information on its whereabouts. We have gathered most of the pieces of the map but seem to be missing the most important one: the centre; the  _ actual  _ location of the Tesseract.” Iakov shifted his weight to his other leg. “I have my best men working on it, but we are spread too thin trying to contain the immediate threats to the Sanctuary by the Order of Hydra.” And yet, Carter was aware of all this. Why was she asking him about it now?

Carter nodded. “What if I told you that our brothers from Athens were in possession of this missing piece?”

Iakov blinked, and cast their Athenian guests a suspicious look. “I would like to know what made them so desperate as to come forward with this information now, when they could have done so many times before. I assume that the piece has been in their possession for a while,” he said, summoning a faint sneer into his voice that bordered on disrespect. He felt his insides lurch as he registered that their guests were _Athenian_ _assassins,_ of all people.

One of the Assassins visibly bristled. The shorter of the two stuck out a hand and gripped their companion’s shoulder reassuringly.

“Finding the Tesseract has become a shared interest, if you will. Our collaboration will be the quickest means to a common end,” said Carter, undeterred by Iakov’s rudeness. She nodded to Alexander, who drew a wooden chest from beneath the table and placed it on top. Unlocking it, he extracted a thick roll of parchment wrapped in linen from it. He took his time unwinding the linen and splaying the sewn pieces of the map out on the table. Just as Iakov had said, in the center was a jagged hole where the final piece should have been. Carter turned to the Athenians, and one of them gently tugged a yellowing scroll of parchment from the folds of their himation, flattening it over the empty space in the map. It fit perfectly. Iakov inhaled sharply through his nose.

There it was. His most important mission fulfilled.

Somehow it didn't feel like it.

“Crete,” Iakov said rather dumbly, at a loss for words. It was a map to Crete. One of the most powerful relics in the history of the world was located on a (mostly) insignificant island. Aside from the fact that it was the birthplace of Zeus, it was a quiet, live-and-let-live kind of place. Iakov could kind of see the irony, in that it would be the last place that anyone would look for something like the  _ Tesseract _ .

He turned back to Carter. “What will you have me do, my lady?”

She smiled somewhat grimly. “You and a team of your choosing will travel with our Athenian Brothers to Crete. You will secure the Tesseract, and arrive in Athens with it,” she said brusquely. “Do you accept this mission?”

_ Do I have much of a choice?  _ Iakov wondered bitterly. “I accept,” he said finally, knowing deep down that he had none whatsoever.

“Then you shall leave at dawn, the day after tomorrow. Prepare yourself and your men. Oh, and Enōmotarches,” Carter added, putting one hand on his shoulder and giving him a long, hard look, “I imagine our Brothers would like to acquaint themselves with their travelling companions before the journey begins. See to it that you make our guests as comfortable as possible during their time here, and introduce them to your team. The Lochagos,” she added, gesturing to the shorter Athenian, “will have first command. You are to obey his orders.” 

Was this punishment? Iakov quelled the anger roiling dangerously in his gut, and bit back a snarl of frustration.

“As you wish, my lady,” he said, tightening his jaw in displeasure.

She turned to the foreigners. “I leave you in my Enōmotarches’ capable hands. I trust there is no further matter for deliberation?”

“No, none, my lady,” said a low voice belonging to the shorter figure; the Lochagos. A surprisingly familiar voice, one that Iakov felt like he'd… like he'd heard before. “I would ask, however, that you allow myself and the Enōmotarches a meeting alone, that we may become better acquainted, and that we may finalize plans for the journey. Perhaps after dinner?”

Iakov stared at the figure who had just spoken. Based off of his voice he was a man, but his build seemed so slight that he must either be sickly, malnourished, barely out of his teens, or all three. But to attain a title such as Lochagos? Why, he outranked even  _ Iakov,  _ and it had taken the latter years to claw through the ranks to get to where he was now.

But his voice,  _ oh _ , his voice was so achingly familiar that Iakov’s hands actually began to shake. He clenched them into fists to keep Carter from noticing. Where had he heard this man before? A cavernous emptiness in his head began to yawn open, an emptiness that should have been filled, but was not, as though someone had reached in and snatched out what was meant to be there. The Lochagos’ voice fit into the emptiness, and Iakov wanted to know why. The vacuum of his memories seemed ready to consume him, and something told Iakov that the Lochagos had the answers he needed to fill that void. Their rendezvous after dinner could not come soon enough.

Carter nodded. “Consider it done, Lochagos. For now, my Syntagmatarchis will show you to your rooms,” she said. Iakov saw Alexander shift his weight from one leg to the other. The older Assassin clearly did not seem thrilled to be shepherding them. Iakov could sympathize, but he wasn't about to offer to replace him.

Carter let her hands fall to her sides. Alexander did the same. Iakov kept his head bowed. The Athenians dropped their chins to their chests. “Where other men blindly follow the truth,” began Carter, and the others in the room responded in echoing unison, “Remember, nothing is true.”

“Where other men are limited by morality or law,” she said in her powerful voice, and again the rest replied, “Remember, everything is permitted.”

“The wisdom of our creed is revealed through these words,” said Carter, “we work in the dark to serve the light.”

Iakov felt electricity in his bones as he and the others murmured the last few words: “We are Assassins.”


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Perhaps there is more to the Lochagos than meets the eye.

“So… you're a babysitter now?”

Iakov let the full weight of his glare settle on Falsworth. He  _ still _ hadn't gotten a glimpse of the Lochagos’ face, because he had been stalking down the corridors in front of them, wondering why he hadn't just kept his damn mouth shut during the meeting, wondering why did  _ he  _ have to be the gods-be-damned secondary on this mission. The Lochagos didn't make things any easier for him; he had kept his helmet and cowl on.

“I am  _ not  _ a babysitter,” Iakov snapped, returning his attention to the handle of the dory he was re-binding with strips of leather. The spearhead had been sharpened already, as had the bronze sauroter at the other end. Iakov didn't particularly like spears, nor had he trained with them often. He much preferred the weight and thick leather handles of his twin kopis over the javelin-esque weapon, but spears were useful at long range, and it never hurt to keep one on hand.

“Well, what  _ are _ you, then?” asked Falsworth, evidently enjoying himself getting a reaction out of Iakov, as he usually did.

“At the helm of a covert team about to embark upon a dangerous and potentially world-altering mission,” said Iakov matter-of-factly. Falsworth raised both hands in front of him.

“All right, so you're a glorified babysitter,” he said, shrugging. Morita snorted. “And,” continued Falsworth, “you're _ second-in-command. _ ” He grinned. “Tell me, how does that feel, knowing that you need to ask for  _ permission _ to do things, after years of doing whatever in Hades’ name you wanted just because you had the authority to do it?” He rested his chin in his hands, smiling pleasantly.

“You know, I could leave you to rot here,” Iakov said, vaguely threateningly. “The Sanctuary could always use a few more scrubbers for the outhouse, or the stables.”

“Be my guest,” replied Falsworth, the aggravating smile not even stuttering for a moment.

Iakov glowered at him for a full minute, before sighing and kicking him in the shin. “Fuck you,” he muttered. Falsworth didn't even flinch; he was wearing his greaves, after all, and not even an arrow could pierce through the metal. A kick from a sandalled foot barely made a dent in it.

Falsworth maintained his infuriating smile. “See? I knew you couldn't do it. You love me.”

Iakov shared a level glance with Morita. “And you say  _ I'm  _ the most insufferable man you've ever met.”

“Ah, not quite. I said that you were  _ one  _ of the most insufferable men I've ever met. One among many, Barnes. One among many,” corrected Morita with a lopsided smile.

“When do we leave, Iakov?” asked Dugan, who had returned from patrols earlier hoping for dinner and a warm bed, only to be pounced on by Iakov and immediately recruited into the team that was setting out on this mission.

“Carter said a day from now, but I don't know how amenable our  _ guests  _ are to that,” he said, injecting venom into the word “guests”. Iakov pinched the bridge of his nose. “For all we know they're going to steal the map and sail away to Crete when we're asleep.”

Gabriel leaned into the doorway with his arms folded across his chest. “Carter has security outside their door; nobody's going to be stealing anything tonight,” he assured. Dugan hummed in agreement.

“Security? They need our help; why would they steal the map?” asked Falsworth incredulously.

“They're still Athenians. We can't trust them, plain and simple,” Iakov answered.

Morita looked up from where he was carefully tightening the slack of his bow. He watched Iakov silently.

“ _ You're _ an Athenian,” said Falsworth, frowning.

“Not anymore,” Iakov said tersely.

“That doesn't make any sense,” argued Falsworth. “You can't just  _ say—” _

“ _ Look _ ,” Iakov began sharply, cutting him off, “not that it is any of your business, but Athens was not kind to me when I had all but dedicated my life to it. I owe neither it nor its  _ representatives  _ anything. This mission will fail, because the only thing you can be sure an Athenian with a knife in his hands will do is stick it into your back.”

The others shifted uncomfortably as Iakov glared at his dory again, working his jaw and binding the handle without looking up at any of the others. He could feel them watching at him. “Admiring my handsome features isn't going to contribute to preparations, gentlemen,” Iakov snapped when the weight of their combined stares became too much, his own eyes still trained on his weapon. That seemed to pull everyone out of their thoughts and spur them into action; they began tinkering with their weapons and folding clothes into satchels. The air was tense, and not a single one of them thought to relieve it by changing the subject.

After a solid hour of this, Iakov exhaled through his nose in frustration and stalked out of the room, both kopis blades at his hips. Morita's knife was tucked into his belt, pressing against his side. He needed to go somewhere.  _ Anywhere _ . He needed to clear his head. Nobody stopped him.

He kept walking until he had crossed the length of the Sanctuary, passing the mess hall, the guest quarters, the war room, and the shrines of Ares and Apollo Carnea without so much as a cursory glance. Briefly, he considered slipping into the arena and working off his frustrations with his fists, but he changed his mind. Drawing his hood up, he shook out his wrists before scaling the the wall deftly, and then leaping off as if it were nothing. He landed in a silent crouch and walked down the empty street. It was dark, a good while after sunset, but the moon had not yet risen; the thickly blue-black hour when the monsters hiding in the shadows would sharpen their claws, biding their time in wait for the full cover of darkness.

When Iakov had last been outside it had been midday, but it was normal to lose track of time in the Sanctuary when one spent as much time in it as he did. There were no windows underground, after all.

The faint, disembodied sound of drunks singing tunelessly filled the air, and soon large clusters of houses were lining both sides of the street as Iakov entered the city proper. He ducked into the gap between two houses and pulled himself to the roof with his hands and feet, finding holds in the loosening brick. He scanned his surroundings, then breathed deeply.

How could Carter do this to him? Drop him into the hands of an Athenian assassin whose instructions he had to follow? How could he, in good conscience, obey a single word of what that bastard Lochagos said, when it would all be horribly misguided and poorly reasoned? For the sake of this victory that they needed so desperately, and for the sake of the Creed, he could not.

But the habit of insubordination had not been ingrained in him, and the guilt alone would be enough to keep him awake in his bunk at night. He sighed. Did Carter seriously think this absurd plan would work? She did not have the experience that he did when it came to Athenians. She was wont to trust them, as the rest of his men were, but Iakov knew better.

He remembered being dragged from his home as a man barely into his twenties to be chained up like a wild beast in a clammy Athenian cell. He remembered being moved from the all-consuming darkness of the prison into the harsh, burning sun of a gladiator’s arena, armed with only a short sword and his wits, meant to face off against other men like him and fight them to the death. And for what? The amusement of the upperclassmen and the aristocrats, who enjoyed watching men—driven mad with hunger and isolation—tear each other to pieces for a crown of laurels. He remembered, clear as day, the thick coppery tang of blood heavy in the air and in the back of his throat, and the cheering of the galleries of crowds, and the throb in his gut as he stared down at the body of another man whose life he had taken. He felt sick just thinking about it.

Iakov took a deep breath to steady himself. He was far away from that life. He was doing honorable work. If it weren’t for his stepfather, he might still be in the arena today, but he wasn’t. He was in Sparta, safe, and he was not a gladiator anymore, nor would he ever be again. He was an Assassin, and he had a mission, and that was all.

He returned to the Sanctuary swiftly, all the gore of his past pushed to the back of his mind and sealed away tightly. His hands were curled into fists, his nails digging crescents into his palms. He was a skilled warrior, an esteemed member of the Brotherhood, and nothing could stand between him and getting that Tesseract for the Creed, least of all the possible ulterior motives of some Athenian who didn’t even matter. His focus was singular, and his jaw was set.

Dinner was uneventful. Iakov kept catching the shorter Athenian, a blond man, staring at him from across the table, and it was honestly starting to grate on his nerves. He felt jittery and his skin crawled. The helmet had been removed from the Lochagos’ head to reveal a hard-angled face of freckled skin, piercing blue eyes, and pink, unsmiling lips. A sharp crease wrinkled his brow. Iakov frowned. Did he know this man? He was… familiar in an unsettling kind of way. Iakov held that hardened gaze for as long as he dared, until the Lochagos pursed his lips and dropped his eyes to his plate.

Falsworth was narrating some story that ended up with him getting stabbed—this was a common ending for most of his tales—and it was a welcome distraction. Morita, seated on Iakov’s right, touched his elbow during the meal. “Are you alright?” he asked, dropping his voice so the others couldn't hear him. Iakov sighed wearily.

“I'm fine.”

“You seem tense.”

“It's nothing. Thinking about the mission, is all.”

Morita didn't pry much further than that, and Iakov was secretly grateful. He didn't glance in the Lochagos’ direction anymore, but he could feel the Athenian’s gaze on him. He ate in silence, allowing Falsworth, Dugan, and Dernier to fill the quiet with their combined raucous personalities.

Soon, dinner came to a close. They all retreated to their quarters after bidding each other goodnight. Then it was time for Iakov’s rendezvous with the Lochagos.

He took a deep breath to steel himself. His blades were in his rooms. Morita's knife was all he had on him, and he sighed. It would have to do.

Iakov scanned the long, snaking corridor, brow furrowing until he spotted the Lochagos, in deep discussion with his Pentēkontēr—Dugan had kindly informed him that this was the rank of the second Athenian—about something. The Pentēkontēr kept casting wary glances in Iakov’s direction. No doubt they were talking about him. Iakov tried not to let that bother him, but bother him it did. He hated that they were discussing him. What did they know of him or of his past, that they felt entitled to talk about him like that? His dislike for them flared up again, and it was only later that he realized that he was perhaps behaving like a hypocrite. 

The Lochagos bade his companion goodnight and began to stride to Iakov. Despite his height and build, he seemed to radiate power and a kind of simmering, controlled anger that felt potent and vicious, and turned the air into lead. His very presence was so large and overwhelming that Iakov forgot the Lochagos stood about a foot or so shorter than him, and it was this presence that filled the entire corridor and threatened to engulf Iakov whole.

The Lochagos clutched a spear in one hand—or at least, it seemed a spear; its shaft appeared to be broken in half. Somehow even  _ that _ became a formidable weapon. His jaw and expression was hard, and Iakov could only stare.

“Well, Enōmotarches, where would you have us talk?” asked he in a voice that rumbled through Iakov’s chest like thunder over open plains. For a moment, Iakov was simply struck dumb by the Lochagos, and it took him a second to gather his thoughts into something coherent.

“I prefer the courtyards,” he began slowly, “although I'm sure we could make use of the war room, if you are privy to the indoors?” Why was he being so polite?  _ You’re a secondary, that’s why. He’s in charge and you had better not forget it,  _ something inside his head told him. He ignored it.

The Lochagos thought for a moment. “If it is the courtyards you prefer, then take us to them,” he said. Iakov nodded and lead him down the corridor, past the shrines and the barracks, until they were in the open again.

The main courtyard was bursting with lush greens, constructed around a lazy spring of crystal cold water. They stretched out in the soft grass, and Iakov felt the breath leave his lungs in a quiet sigh. The night air left gentle, curious touches on Iakov’s bare arms and legs. He had finally exchanged his linothorax and gowns for a linen chiton and a himation to cover his scarred arm.

The Lochagos, for his part, had removed his cloak and armor, and wore a plain white chiton that looked like it had seen better days. Iakov noticed that, with the lack of layers covering him, the Lochagos seemed… younger, and less of a sickly child. He was lean, built like a runner, with wiry muscles corded firmly under freckled skin. Iakov watched the Lochagos set the spear down in the grass by his thigh, lean back on his palms, and close his eyes.

_ He must be tired, _ thought Bucky suddenly, and it was only reasonable that the Lochagos felt so. The journey from Athens was difficult, and the Lochagos and his Pentēkontēr had had no proper time for rest. They now had to snatch a precious few hours before beginning preparations to embark upon another trip, a far more dangerous one at that, and with far higher stakes. Who knew when they would return from it, or if they would return at all?

“—without a crew.” The Lochagos’ voice pierced his thoughts. He must have been saying something important; his expression was grave. Iakov forced himself to pay attention, just as the Lochagos’ eyes narrowed. “Did you hear a word of what I said?” he asked.

“Of course I did.”

“Oh? What was the last thing?”  _ Childish,  _ Iakov huffed internally, any pity he might have felt for the Lochagos disappearing,  _ absolutely childish.  _ And yet, he found himself unable to reply. He set his jaw and dropped his gaze into his lap.

He heard the Lochagos sigh. “I was  _ saying _ , in the interest of protecting the map and ourselves, we need a ship without a crew. We cannot give the Order any opportunity to infiltrate our party or to find out about us having the map.” His fingers clenched in the grass. “We are at an unbelievable advantage, Enōmotarches, an entire ten steps ahead of them. We must use it to the fullest.” Iakov hummed his agreement.

“A ship without a crew,” Iakov echoed, turning the idea over in his mind. The air was thick with the cloying scent of flowers, and the breeze swirled around them. Moonlight dusted the Lochagos’ shoulder-length blond hair into silvery gossamer, turned his skin to pale milk, scraped jagged shadows from his jaw and his cheekbones. He looked… ethereal. Otherworldly. Almost as though if Iakov reached out to touch him, he would disappear altogether. “It might be difficult to procure, especially with the time constraint,” he murmured.

“I am aware. So what do you propose we do?” asked the Lochagos.

Iakov opened his mouth to answer, then closed it again, frowning in confusion. “Really? You're… you’re  _ genuinely _ asking?”

The Lochagos shrugged. “What kind of a primary would I be if I didn’t listen to my secondary’s counsel?”

Well.

This was… new.

It was definitely not the way that they operated in Sparta. Iakov’s eyes widened slightly in surprise.

“Huh,” was all he said, rather lamely.

It was the Lochagos’ turn to frown. “Is there a problem?”

“No, no. It’s just… secondaries don't do that here,” Iakov explained.

“Where I'm from it's part of the job.” The Lochagos regarded Iakov more closely, and his gaze seemed to slice Iakov in half. “If not that, then what _do_ secondaries do?”

“They replace the primary if he's killed. Until then they serve the same purposes as a regular team member.”

“Ah.” The Lochagos paused and licked his lips. “Be that as it may,” he said, “I myself would appreciate your input.” His eyes, glowing like jewels in the dark, cut for a brief moment to one side thoughtfully, before sliding over to Iakov once more. His pupils were wide, possibly to adjust for the lack of proper lighting. They were sitting shoulder-to-shoulder, so close that Iakov could pick out a sliver of green in the blue of those eyes. He didn't know what to do with that information now that he had it. Instead of throwing it away, something told him to keep it safe, so keep it safe he did: he tucked it away into the back of his mind.

The Lochagos sighed. “Tell me what you think.”

Iakov hummed absently. “I would find a mercantile ship. Something small, easy to ignore, with just the bare minimum of a crew or even less; a navigator, perhaps—we would need one. I don't know about you,” he said with a little bit of a smirk, “but my men aren't exactly the most skilled of seafarers.”

The Lochagos rolled his eyes and snorted. “You make a fair point.”

“A merchant ship would explain the map we have of Crete should any unsavory characters find it, and the weapons we'll have on-board,” Iakov elaborated, feeling somewhat emboldened by the smile that faintly tugged on the corners of the Lochagos’ lips.

The Lochagos nodded. “We will need the documentation to prove it, and perhaps an actual stock of goods, to maintain the pretense in case the vessel is searched.” His expression had grown thoughtful, but excitement hummed beneath it all at the prospect of adventure. He was practically glowing with it, barely able to contain himself.

“I can acquire the documentation. I have a contact in the city who would only be too happy to indulge me. If I reach out to her tomorrow, she will furnish us with what we require,” Iakov assured.“But as to the goods, while they may be necessary, they may be hard to acquire on such short notice.”

The Lochagos pursed his lips and thought for a moment, before licking his lips. “You leave that to me, Enōmotarches.”

Iakov stared at him, incredulity filling every crevasse in his face. “You?”

“You have your contacts, I have mine,” shrugged the Lochagos, a teasing smile on his face, and he was becoming more and more of a tangled mystery the more they spoke. Iakov thought he had had the Lochagos’ character pinned down, that he knew how to handle him, but each time the Lochagos opened his mouth he proved that that was not so. He was simply unplottable.

“Shall we go together?” Iakov blurted out, and the Lochagos frowned. “I mean, to meet our contacts. Even though we may not be going in the same direction, it is ill-advised to travel alone,” Iakov explained. “And, perhaps,” he added, averting his gaze, “we might begin to… to acquaint ourselves with each other before the mission.” His eyes flickered back to the Lochagos’ face to gauge his expression. It was impassive and unreadable, and Iakov didn’t know why he expected anything less. “After all, we will be travelling and fighting beside one another for weeks. I would rather not put my life in the hands of a total stranger, if it’s all the same to you.” He hoped this explanation could withstand scrutiny.

It had to, because something warm and heavy and not entirely unpleasant inside Iakov’s chest, inside his very bones, told him that the Lochagos was familiar to him, that they had… somehow known each other, perhaps in a past life, and that in those hands were answers to questions that Iakov didn’t know he had. The sensation was insistent, and it was making it hard to breathe and to focus. He needed to know why he felt the way he was feeling. He needed to know what the Lochagos knew. He needed to.

Of course, he couldn’t tell the Lochagos about all this, because it sounded absolutely insane, so he kept it to himself.

After a stiff, calculating pause, the Lochagos ran his hands through his hair and hummed. “I think I would be agreeable to that, yes.” Iakov ignored the loud swoop his stomach gave at his words. “Shall we depart at dawn?”

“Very well,” replied Iakov, nodding, and then the Lochagos pushed off from the ground, spear in hand, and turned on his heel. He was about to head off to the guest quarters, when he paused in the archway where the corridor opened into the courtyard, half shadowed in flickering light from the torches lining the corridor behind him, and half washed in moonlight. “Stefanos Rogers,” said he, and Iakov frowned.

“What?”

“My name,” the Lochagos explained. “You said you wanted us to become better acquainted, so this would be a step in the right direction, I hope.”

Iakov… knew that name.

He knew it from…  _ somewhere _ , but he didn't know  _ how _ . The force of it hit him like a chariot at full speed. His mind wrapped around each syllable and welcomed it like an old friend, but the memories attached to the name were hollow and empty, like they had been snatched away. He blinked hard once, twice, thrice. He felt breathless, like he'd just run a marathon. His blood roared in his ears.

“Now is where you tell me yours,” Stefanos prompted.

Iakov blinked once, twice. “It's… it's Barnes. My name is Iakov Barnes.”

Stefanos’ face slowly morphed into a frown then. An intense, painful sort of frown, and he moved towards Iakov without taking his eyes off him. Iakov took a step back, instinctively, but Stefanos grabbed his wrist and stopped him. With his free hand Stefanos pushed away Iakov’s himation to reveal his arm, the scars white in the dark. The moonlight swept across it, and Stefanos’ hand let go of Iakov’s wrist to brush a particularly nasty rib of tissue lining his shoulder. His eyes widened.

“Bucky?” asked Stefanos, his voice brimming with something hopeful, almost violently so, and this same hope burned low and bright in his eyes.

“How—how do you know that name?” Iakov asked, his hands beginning to tremble, but whether in anger or fear he did not know. He felt as though a long, cold finger was running down the length of his spine, and he held Stefanos’ steady gaze despite the blood in his veins chilling to ice.

_ Bucky _ was a name he had not dared give anybody; he was sworn to silence by his stepfather, if only to protect his identity from his old handlers, who might still be on the prowl for him.

_ Bucky  _ was the boy who had been forced into the ill-fitting garb of a gladiator, who had torn his way through whoever his handlers had pitted him against, and who had died at the hands of a masked warrior with a trident. Something else had risen in his place, something dark and twisted and ruthless. They called him the Winter Soldier, and he was without mercy or shield; there was no need for trivial things as that. The bones of wraiths, after all, were held together with shadows. 

Who was Stefanos, then? This Athenian, who knew the name of the person Iakov had long ago left behind?

For a moment, Iakov wondered whether Stefanos knew him as a gladiator, weighed the possibility that perhaps Stefanos knew his old employers – or worse, was one of them. He felt bile at the back of his throat just thinking about it, and a uncontrollable shudder ran through him.

Stefanos licked his lips, glancing up from the spiderweb-like skin of Iakov’s arm. “I don't believe it,” he breathed, lips parted in disbelief – or something else? – his fingers coming up tentatively to brush Iakov’s temple. “You're…you’re alive?”

“I am no ghost, I assure you,” said Iakov quietly, not daring to move.

“And yet even ghosts once drew breath from mortal lungs,” Stefanos murmured. “Do you remember me?” he asked quietly after a moment. His eyes searched Iakov’s face imploringly for some sign of recognition, but he would find none.

“I cannot say that I do,” Iakov replied, growing slightly more afraid now as his mind warmed to the possibility that Stefanos was indeed one of his old handlers. A knot tightened in his chest, and he could barely breathe around it.

A flicker of confusion crossed Rogers’ face. “Bucky, it's… it's me. Do –” he swallowed, “do you honestly not remember?”

“I do not.”

“Bucky, I’m –”

“ _ Don’t call me that _ ,” snarled Iakov. “Whoever you knew by that name, I am not him.” Iakov squeezed his eyes shut, both hands covering his mouth. He breathed deeply, to calm himself, and it seemed to be working; he was less agitated when he opened his eyes again. Stefanos was staring off into the distance, unfocused.

“Iakov, forgive me. I–I thought I recognized you. Perhaps I was mistaken.” Stefanos’ eyes, blue like chips of ice, glass, the sky itself, slipped down to Iakov’s. “It’s just… you reminded me remarkably of a… a friend I lost.” His head tilted the other way and his lips pursed. Iakov was trapped under his stare, unable to move or think or even breathe.

Stefanos drew his shoulders back, drawing himself up to his full height. “By your leave,” he said curtly. Iakov nodded once, and then Stefanos was gone, walking quickly to the guest quarters. He did not look back even once.

Iakov walked towards the barracks in silence, practically asphyxiated with guilt and worry. The candle inside the quarters he shared with his team had long been extinguished, and shadows draped themselves languidly across the softly snoring bodies of the others. Iakov removed his sandals and undid his braids, before slipping quietly into his bunk without rousing Dugan and Morita, who slept closest to him. The knife he pushed underneath his pillow and left there, fingers curled around the handle. Normally he would clutch his dagger under the pillow as he slept, but the knife was a larger, more comforting weight, and besides, he had lost the dagger to Gabriel in a round of pankration a few weeks ago.

Sleep did not come for him, however hard he willed it to. Iakov laid awake for an eternity, staring up at the ceiling, one arm tucked underneath his head, the other resting on his stomach, lost to the world.

Stefanos knew him. He had known Iakov from somewhere. And as much as Iakov didn't want to believe it, he simply  _ couldn't _ – an insistent tugging inside him, winding itself around his heart like a tight cord, told him that he knew Stefanos too.

Soon, but not soon enough, he felt the cool, silken caress of sleep envelop him, and he uneasily allowed himself to be taken away by it.

* * *

 


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The contacts are...well, contacted.

The next day was spent making preparations for the journey. They left, as agreed, at dawn, with instructions from Carter to return swiftly and safely. Iakov was still rubbing the sleep out of his eyes as they mounted their horses and rode out to the city.

Stefanos’ contact, a woman only identified as Agent 13, was stationed a few towns over, and it would take half a day’s worth of riding to meet with her and return to the Sanctuary before dinner. Iakov’s contact was closer, within city limits, so they decided to meet with her first.

They found themselves being ushered into the home of Iakov’s contact, a fiery-haired woman reclining in a large chair, one eyebrow quirked and a cup of wine in her hand. Their arrival had interrupted her sunning herself in the center courtyard, clad in a silk robe and without sandals. She regarded Iakov with her usual dry, sarcastic tone, but there was a mischievous gleam in her eye that wasn’t there before.

“Barnes. To what do I owe the pleasure?” she asked, her expressionless face breaking into a languid smile when her gaze rested on Stefanos. “And who is  _ this  _ lovely creature?” As she spoke her expression became curious and deadly, like a leopard eyeing a wounded deer and debating whether or not she must let the deer live. Her eyes flickered to Iakov. “New bedfellow?”

“We are  _ not _ bedfellows,” Iakov said through clenched teeth, a blush rising unbidden to his cheeks. He paused, inhaled deeply, then let all of his annoyance out with the exhale. Getting a rise out of him amused Anastasia to no end, and he was not going to give her the satisfaction today.

“Alright, alright. Bedfellow, lover, sexual partner – whatever you want to call it.”

“This is Stefanos Rogers of the Athens Bureau. We are assigned to a mission together, and for that we require your assistance. He and I are  _ not  _ sleeping together. That is all you need to know.”

“A pity,” Anastasia hummed. “Your children would have had the faces of cherubs.”

Stefanos spluttered, embarrassed, and his cheeks pinked as his eyes flicked from Anastasia to Iakov. “I’m sorry, our _what_?” He blinked. “We can’t… you –”

“Don’t get upset,” she cut in, shrugging. “You’re both very handsome, that’s all I’m saying.”

Iakov ignored her. “Look, we don't have much time, Ana. Can you help us or not?”

“You insult me, dearest.” The endearment was sugared with mockery. She sat up in her chair, crossing one long pale leg over the other, and grinned wickedly. “What do you need?”

* * *

 

Stefanos had smoothed a map out on the grass and was studying it carefully, fingers dancing over the black lines scrawled across it, lips moving as he murmured something under his breath. Iakov sat beside him. He stretched out his stiffened legs with a sigh and took a long drink from his water skin, perhaps longer than he should have—resources must be conserved whenever they could, after all. He offered the skin to Stefanos, who raised an eyebrow at him. “Take it. You look like you need it; you’re redder than a poppy,” insisted Iakov.

“It’s normal. I burn easily,” Stefanos admitted.

“All the more reason,” he replied. Stefanos finally accepted the skin with a small smile, raised it to his lips, tipped his head back, and drank deeply.

Iakov most certainly did not watch the slow dip of his Adam’s apple with each swallow. And he  _ definitely _ did not stare at that long column of throat, at those sharp cheekbones and square jaw, sweat-salted and flushed from the heat.

“Thank you,” said Stefanos, returning the skin to Iakov, who waved the thanks away. Stefanos hummed as he looked over the map again. “Perhaps a mile or so in that direction,” he mused, pointing to the smudge of a town in the distance.

“Why the uncertainty? Don’t you know where your own contact is stationed?”

Stefanos cocked an eyebrow. “If it wasn’t obvious already, I don’t navigate these parts all that often. Athens I know like the back of my hand. This is a new and a strange land, and I am a foreigner here. So forgive me if I don’t immediately know where everything is.”

Iakov raised his hands in surrender, then leaned back on his elbows, tipping his chin up to the sky. “Why do you carry that, if I may be so bold as to ask?” he murmured after a breath of quiet had passed between them.

“Hm?”

“Your spear. It’s broken. Why not carry a whole one?”

“It was a gift.”

“So you keep it for sentiment?”

“Yes, and no.” To Iakov’s confused frown, Stefanos replied, “it is a powerful gift, and I keep it for a day when I will require it—although I hope that that day should never present itself.” He paused to tuck a lock of blonde hair behind his ear. “I keep it for sentiment, yes, but it serves me in battle as well.”

Iakov’s confusion only grew. “Powerful? What do you mean?”

“Perhaps I will be able to show you, someday.”

With that vague almost-promise lingering in his thoughts, Iakov swiped his tongue over his drying lips and took another drink of water. The skin was three-quarters of the way empty when he finished, judging by the weight of it in his hand—or rather, the lack of weight—and he pushed himself to his feet. He walked to his horse and slipped the skin into one of the bags. Putting one hand to his brow to shield his eyes from the sun, Iakov squinted in the direction of the town Stefanos had pointed in.

“How good is your guess that your contact is over there?” he asked.

“Fairly good, I’d say.”

“Then I’ll take it. Shall we go?”

Stefanos rolled up his map and tucked it into his belt, rising to his feet and brushing grass off his knees. “Yes, let’s. My legs are starting to fall asleep.”

* * *

 

When they arrived at their destination—Stefanos’ “fairly good” guess had proved accurate—dusk was beginning to curtain the sky. Agent 13, a woman with blonde hair adorned in airy white robes and a grim smile, was waiting for them outside the city.

Stefanos dismounted and bowed low, and Iakov took it as his cue to do the same. Agent 13 ducked her head in response.

“Lochagos,” she said curtly.

“Agent,” Stefanos replied.

“This is…?” she asked, eyeing Iakov.

“A colleague. He can be trusted,” was all Stefanos said by way of explanation. The Agent did not stop casting Iakov suspicious sideways glances, however. “I trust the messenger I sent last night reached you in good stead?” Stefanos asked then.

Iakov frowned. He was not aware of a messenger being dispatched. Although that would explain why the Agent knew where to wait for their arrival.

“He did,” she answered. “I have arranged for the cargo to be here tomorrow. Would that serve your purposes?”

“It would.” Stefanos broke into a smile then, warm and genuine and honest. It pulled at the corners of his eyes and deepened the dimples in his cheeks. Iakov took one look at his expression and felt his heart clench rather painfully.

In that instant, he saw the flash of an image in his mind, one of Stefanos smiling at  _ him.  _ The golden-haired man appeared several years younger; his face wasn’t tense and lined with worry. He sported a blackened eye and his lip was split, but his smile sang of victory, of adrenaline, of the sun itself. His hand was cupping Iakov’s cheek. Iakov felt his every callus and scar, and he was leaning into Stefanos’ palm. Stefanos opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, the image—or the memory?—was gone.

Iakov frowned uneasily to himself and pressed his fingers into his temples, blinking hard. “I owe you a great debt for this,” said Stefanos, the real Stefanos, and Iakov could hear his voice curling around the grin.

Agent 13 shook her head. “After all you have done for me, it is I who owes the debt,” she said, putting her hand on his shoulder. The smile she gave Stefanos in return was reserved yet brilliant at the same time, and Iakov felt like his presence here, listening to their interaction, was… intrusive. So he excused himself and moved to the horses, all the while feeling less and less like he was being submerged into a vessel of hot oil the longer he stood apart from them.

Stefanos and the Agent exchanged words of parting, and soon it was time to depart. Iakov did not speak the entire journey back; his head was far too full to form thoughts and his throat far too tight to form words. He clenched the reins till his knuckles were white. Stefanos seemed to pick up on his feelings, because he did not attempt to make conversation. The moon was a silver sickle blade in the sky.


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nightmares.

After Iakov and Stefanos returned to the Sanctuary, it was late into the night. They were stiff and exhausted, but they still had to attend a mandatory briefing with Carter. Iakov had to keep forcing his eyes open during it, when all he wanted to do was throw himself onto his bunk, pull his knees to his chest, and forget about everything. Mercifully, Stefanos had done most of the talking for the pair of them.

Soon, the briefing drew to a close and they were allowed to retire to their beds. Stefanos stopped him in the corridor before Iakov could go, however, with a firm hand on his good shoulder.

“What bothers you, Iakov?” he asked, and Iakov tightened his jaw.

“Nothing.”

“You’ve been silent all this time. Something must be on your mind.”

“It’s nothing of import, I assure you.”

“You can tell me.”

“Stefanos,” Iakov said, tone slightly rising. “If there was something to say, I would say it.”

Stefanos gave him a long, hard look. When he spoke again he sighed, quiet and resigned. “Very well. Thank you for accompanying me today. You were…” he paused to nod slowly. “You were good.”

Iakov didn’t reply. He sucked in his cheeks, nodded stiffly, and muttered out a goodbye before turning on his heel and heading off quickly to the barracks.

* * *

 

Iakov dreamt murky dreams that night. He dreamt that he was running from some sinister force, some evil too great to imagine. He dreamt of claws catching on his heels and causing him to stumble, dragging him backwards.

He dreamt of a man with blond hair and bronze skin, a man with lightning in his eyes and a halved spear in his grip. The sun itself seemed to rush out of him, overflowing in torrents and incapable of being contained. He was bright, and by all the gods he was beautiful, and he stared at Iakov across the packed sands of the arena with a gaze like a glassy river, unblinking, unflinching, unwavering.

Iakov dreamt of digging his fingernails into the ground, every muscle in his body straining from the effort of resisting being pulled into the shadows behind him.

He reached for the man—a man? or a god? surely someone as ethereal as he could not be mortal—but then a darkness so vicious and absolute was enveloping him from all sides, choking the breath from his lungs, and cold, high laughter began to ring in his ears. He managed to kick off the weight around his legs and scrambled blindly towards the being built of sun and sinew, a beacon of light in the shadow. The darkness slid over his limbs and curled around his body and began to pull even harder. The man made no movement towards Iakov, not to help or to attack him; his expression was hardened and his stance was undisturbed.

Iakov, with what felt like tar seeping into his muscles, fought and snarled to get to the immortal, who was untouched by the chaos around him. No sooner did Iakov’s fingers close around a firm wrist than he felt a jolt of electricity surge through him and light him up from inside. He saw his bones through his skin.

Iakov sat bolt upright in his bunk, his pulse pounding in his ears. His chest began to ache, piteously, painfully, a cold sweat on his brow. His hands were shaking.

It was a long while before he went back to sleep. This time he did not dream—or if he did, he did not remember it.


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The stage is set, the curtain rises, the journey begins.

The sun began to rise in the east, glowing behind the smooth curve of the horizon, turning the sky from indigo to soft purple to an acidic orange-yellow, all which would soon melt away to a clear, burning blue. The air was bone-dry, and the Assassins were already loading up their horses.

They dressed in linen chitons and coarse himations—travelling clothes, far more inconspicuous than their usual garb but offering far less protection in battle. Each hid his weapons in the bags draped across the back of his horse. Iakov slipped his kopis into one of his bags, but he kept Morita’s knife tucked in his belt, against the small of his back, just in case.

Iakov scanned their little group then, silently counting off members as he did. Falsworth was rummaging through his bags for something with a frown. Gabriel, Morita and Dernier were talking in hushed voices, their horses already loaded. Dugan was emerging from the corridor with Carter, the map clutched in her hands. The Pentēkontēr—Rumlow was his name—was working his jaw and securing the bags around his horse's belly. And Stefanos was murmuring to his steed as he stroked his long fingers down its caramel muzzle gently. His eyes were fond and crinkled at the corners. A bow was slung across his shoulders, a quiver of feather-tailed arrows around his hips. Iakov couldn't seem to look away. He remembered the events of the previous day, and he remembered his dream. It was so vivid, so tangible. He wondered if he had dreamt of Stefanos.

“Humor your father for awhile, Iakov, and come take a walk with me before you depart,” said Alexander from behind him, interrupting his reverie by clapping Iakov on his bad shoulder.

“If the Lochagos will permit me,” he replied, stifling a wince. At the mention of his title, Stefanos looked up sharply and frowned.

“With all due respect, sir,” he began, staring pointedly at Alexander, “we must leave as soon as possible. We’ve a fair amount of ground between us and Gytheio, and I had hoped to arrive –”

“Yes, well, I’m sure you can spare Iakov for a moment,  _ Lochagos _ ,” Alexander said, cutting him off mid sentence. “After all, I am well on in years, and I fear I may not be strong enough to welcome him home when he returns—that is,  _ if  _ he returns.” He cocked his head almost tauntingly. “And you are an honorable man. You would not deprive a father of bidding his only son a proper goodbye, would you?”

Stefanos did not once look at Iakov. “I would not,” he said curtly before excusing himself. He turned on his heel and walked to Rumlow without another word.

“He seems like an odd one, doesn’t he?” mused Alexander when Stefanos was out of earshot. They walked away from the group, standing close to the compound wall.

Iakov frowned. “He seems fine to me.”

“Mm. Unusually… jittery.”

“He must be nervous about the mission,” said Iakov, “as we all are.”

Alexander hummed discordantly, pursing his lips and narrowing his eyes at Stefanos’ figure hunched over the straps around Rumlow’s horse, which did not seem to be securing properly.

“How was your journey with him?” Alexander asked, dropping his voice.  _ Ah,  _ thought Iakov,  _ not a goodbye, then. An interrogation.  _ This seemed more in-character than the tearful farewell that he'd implored Stefanos for.

“It was… eventful,” Iakov replied, rather annoyed. An itching feeling began to sprawl out beneath his skin, a powerful urge to mount his horse and spur it on towards the burnished horizon and the bronze sun, to run and leave Alexander far, far behind him.

It wasn’t the first time he had felt this. He had been consumed by guilt every time the sensation passed, and this occasion was no different. Who would want such a horrible thing? To run away from the only father he had ever known—his real father having succumbed to disease when he himself was but three years old—was the pinnacle of ungratefulness. Alexander had trained him in the ways of the Assassin and had kept him safe when his life was in danger. But here he was, dreaming of golden Athenian warriors at night and of running away from the only family he had left in the world in the morning.

“I trust you both found common ground to talk about?”

“More or less,” replied Iakov.

Alexander paused as though waiting for Iakov to elaborate. When he didn't, the older Assassin frowned.

“Well, what did he tell you?”

Despite all of this, something made Iakov want to hoard every word Stefanos had told him, relevant to the mission or not, and hide it away from Alexander’s prying hands. He told himself that he wasn’t being selfish; that he was only looking out for the safety of their mission. The less anyone outside their company knew of the details, the better. Iakov shrugged. “We made plans for the mission.”

“Is that all?”

“Yes.”

“He told you nothing else?”

“Should he have told me something more, Father?” Iakov asked, feigning innocence.

“His blood is of Athens, my boy. He could very well turn you against us.” Alexander smiled wryly, but his eyes were humorless shards of glass.

“He won’t. Can’t.” Iakov set his jaw firmly.

“I know. But they are a silver-tongued people. They could convince a thirsty man to trade a skin of water for a bag of sand.” Alexander sighed. He smoothed Iakov’s errant curls away from his forehead, like he used to do when Iakov was young and bright-eyed; less battle-hardened, less world-wearied. “I want you to be careful, is all.”

“I will.” Iakov was surprised by this show of compassion, and felt that all-too-familiar guilt lodge in his throat again.  “I promise, Father. I won’t let him turn me against our Bureau, least of all against you.”

“I believe you.” He cupped the side of Iakov’s jaw, and Bucky leaned into the touch. The rough pad of Alexander’s thumb swiped across his cheekbone once, twice, thrice, and then Alexander’s hand dropped to his side. “Go on, now. I’m sure your Lochagos won’t take kindly to me keeping you from your departure.”

Iakov glanced over Alexander’s shoulder. The others had already mounted their horses and were trudging slowly to the main gate. Stefanos lingered, and Iakov wondered if he was waiting for him.

Iakov headed to his steed and mounted it smoothly. He checked that he had everything with him, before allowing himself to look at Stefanos.

“Are you ready?” he asked, putting one hand up to shield his eyes from the sun. Iakov saw the yellowed corner of the now sewn-together map peering out from underneath his himation, tucked into his belt.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” Iakov replied.

Stefanos flicked his wrists and spurred the horse into a canter towards the rest of the team, who were idling by the gate, Iakov close behind him.

“Took you long enough,” grunted Dugan, but Iakov waved him off, slowing his pace so the others could ride ahead of him, single file. Despite his rank, he preferred to bring up the rear and took his place even now to watch their six. Normally, either Gabriel or Dugan would ride up front. Stefanos, however, frowned at him.

“You won’t ride at the front?” he asked.

“This is my place,” Iakov said, shrugging. Stefanos’ frown deepened.

“Your place is at the helm. You won’t be of much use to me from the rear.”

Iakov opened his mouth to argue, but held his tongue. “Very well,” he managed to say without raising his voice—a feat in and of itself. He followed Stefanos to the front.

“Will you bring up the rear, Rumlow?” Stefanos asked his Pentēkontēr, and the man—black hair shorn close to his skull, a white scar over his brow, and his jaw a hard curve—nodded once and headed to the tail-end of their line. Stefanos rode ahead, Iakov behind him, then Dugan, Morita, Dernier, Falsworth (Iakov had made sure to put as much distance between himself and Falsworth as he could), Gabriel, and Rumlow.

Iakov turned his eyes heavenward, and sent up a silent prayer to whichever deity happened to be listening that their team might survive this mission. He had a feeling they’d need all the luck—divine or otherwise—that they could get.

* * *

 

It was turning into a scorching day, right in the middle of summer. They had all, one by one, given up and peeled off their himations from their sweat-slicked bodies, bundling the heavy cloth into their bags. Relief came as a slight gasp of wind now and again. The horses’ hooves kicked up fine clouds of dust that clung like a film to exposed skin, and each time Iakov absently swiped his tongue over his cracked lips he got a mouthful of sand.

They passed through town after town. In the early morning the streets had been empty and littered with sleepy livestock, groaning and bleating softly, but by now there were people trudging past neat rows of warm-colored houses, some with water jugs balanced on their shoulders and others with covered baskets under their arms, not one of them bleary-eyed or casting Iakov and his companions a second glance.

They maintained a steady pace, but the heat was making everyone irritable, and there were mutters and soft grumblings from behind Iakov and Stefanos, but no outright complaints as yet. It was hot, but not hot enough to warrant insubordination, and they all soon retreated into their own thoughts, lapsing the company into silence. Iakov and Stefanos exchanged murmured snatches of conversation, but these were few and far between.

They were heading for the city smattered across the horizon. Falsworth, tired of the stonelike silence, began to sing. The others soon joined in, and Iakov caught himself humming along to the music. Stefanos gave him a small, surprised smile, but made no comment.

They met Agent 13 on the outskirts of the city again, in the same place as yesterday. The only notable difference was that a row of five carts were lined up behind her, flanked by a small handful of armed figures. The carts were laden with barrels and sacks, which must be the cargo Stefanos had requested, and the strangers clad in armor must be a guard of some sort. Iakov sized each one of them up, six in all. They appeared well-built and hardly seemed strangers to combat, but he could say with certainty that his men were their equals, if not more. “Cloth, spice, cured meats. As per your request,” said the Agent, smiling a cold, terse smile at all but Stefanos.

“Secure the cargo,” said Stefanos to the company, and the Spartans glanced at Iakov.

“What are you all looking at me for? You heard him,” Iakov said after a moment of confusion, before he headed for one of the carts himself. The slightly hesitant team split up to begin fastening the harnesses of the remaining carts to the horses. Dugan came to help Iakov.

Stefanos lingered by the Agent, presumably to thank her with another one of his smiles—those slow, secretive, liquid sunlight smiles. Iakov’s jaw tightened with what felt alarmingly like jealousy. He pushed the feeling away as the unease of yesterday slowly trickled back to him.

“You’re really going to roll over, then?” whispered Dugan suddenly.

“What are you talking about?” asked Iakov, frowning.

Dugan lifted one shoulder and dropped it nonchalantly. “Nothing. You usually don’t handle someone else being in charge too well, so all this… lack of arguing… it’s a little out of character, Iakov.” Dugan held Iakov’s gaze. “And I worry about you, you know that.”

Iakov sighed. “I’m fine, Dugan. Carter knows what she’s doing and she, in all her infinite wisdom, has appointed Stefanos as the primary on this mission, so I will not question her judgement.” He turned his focus to securing the cart to the steed. “I think it is best that you do the same.”

Dugan was silent. His lips were pursed, and his heavy, rust-colored brow was furrowed. Iakov decided not to carry the conversation any further, and kept his eyes fixed firmly on the task at hand. Dugan did not bring up the subject again, and they worked quickly and in a comfortable silence, the kind that came with years of camaraderie.

When he was done he spotted Stefanos and Morita double-checking the cargo to make sure that it corresponded with the falsified manifests they had acquired from Anastasia. They appeared to be getting along well together, and that was a small consolation for Iakov. He glanced around and realized that the Agent and her guards had gone already. Iakov hadn’t even had a chance to convey his thanks. Then he wondered: if he had been able to do so, would he have meant it?

He wasn’t ungrateful, far from it. He simply didn’t trust the Agent as much as Stefanos did. And, if he was being honest… Iakov just didn’t like her.

Stefanos’ clear, steady voice calling out to the company broke his train of thought. “We’re losing daylight waiting here; let us make haste.”


	6. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The company stops to rest.

The sun hung high in the blue silk of the sky, and the very ground seemed to simmer with heat. 

Iakov’s hair, quickly dampening and plastering itself to the nape of his neck, was starting to get annoying. They had been riding well into the day when Iakov took the reins between his teeth to free his hands before quickly tugging his hair into a tight braid. Stefanos, his own hair already pulled away from his face in anticipation of the heat of the day—smart man—stared at Iakov incredulously the entire time. “What?” he asked through the leather of the reins, frowning. Stefanos simply shook his head and looked away, his cheeks flushed red from sunburn.

Soon they were in the countryside, far away from civilization, surrounded by gently rolling knolls of scraggy, parched grass, interspersed with the occasional vineyard and wheat field. The road, like a long, golden snake, wound its way steadily ahead of them. Iakov kept his chin up and his eyes on the horizon.

The progress they made was slow because they had to account for the weight of the carts, and the fact that they had been riding non-stop for hours. So they paused to eat and drink and to rest the horses as nightfall billowed over the hills, just as the sky began to flush from dusty orange to indigo. There was a tall oak tree, old and thick and broad-leaved, standing like a lone sentry by the side of the road, and they took shelter in its shadow.

The company seemed grateful for the rest, and once they had eaten their rations for the day, they seemed in a more lively mood. Falsworth was being annoying again, which was a good sign. Rumlow sat slightly apart from the group, listening politely but not contributing to the discussion himself. Iakov watched him out of the corner of his eye. He didn’t know why, but something about that dark-haired Assassin made his stomach curdle.

Between watching Rumlow and holding his own against Falsworth’s good-natured jabs, he didn’t notice Stefanos’ quiet gaze on him the entire time.

They set up camp for the night around the tree, and Iakov slept fitfully.

He awoke suddenly from a dream he couldn’t remember and peered out of his tent, only to find Stefanos sitting cross-legged by the blackened embers of their small fire, hands pressed into his face. His back was turned to Iakov, his shoulders were shaking violently, and he made small, garbled whimpers now and again.

Iakov frowned. Was he… crying?

Iakov didn’t know whether he should go to Stefanos and ask him if he was alright or not. He was alone. 

Then Iakov wondered if maybe Stefanos  _ wanted _ to be alone. He felt guilt like fire close his throat. Stefanos probably didn’t want anyone to see him like this. He should just go back to sleep. 

But then again… why sit in the middle of the camp and suffer a breakdown if he didn’t want anyone to see him? And yet, o verwhelming emotions often attacked when one least expected them, after all.

He took a small breath and retreated back into his tent, letting the flap shut noiselessly on its own. It was none of his business to intrude on Stefanos like that. Stefanos probably wouldn’t even want to talk even if Iakov did approach him, especially when he was in such a vulnerable state.

Iakov decided that it was better for him not to interfere, better not to risk jeopardizing his and Stefanos’ already fragile and more than confusing relationship this early in the mission. He lay down on his side, pulling his knees to his chest. He squeezed his eyes shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a... a fetus of a chapter but if I hadn't cut here then it would've gotten way too big. The next one is going to be longer, I promise.


	7. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The camp is attacked, and Iakov could not be more delighted.

For the next two weeks their routine was more or less the same: wake up, dismantle their camp, load their horses and carts, hit the road, break for lunch, journey on till nightfall, then set up camp again. It was awfully dull. But Iakov supposed that that was what a routine entailed, and still he found himself quickly suffocating from the monotony of it.

So when their camp was attacked, Iakov almost cried with relief.

It was night, and they were navigating through a gorge. They were funneled in by high walls of rock sloping steeply towards a path at the very bottom, carved out by a river that had long since dried up. There was nowhere to shelter; the rockface was sheer and uninterrupted. 

Iakov had been on watch that night, and he had been sitting by the fire in its death throes, worrying about Stefanos; Iakov had found him crying twice more since that first time. Those were two more occasions that he had not gone to comfort this man who was slowly becoming very dear to him.

Iakov had been lost in thought, staring up at the mouth of the gorge and at the stars cresting it, until the bright pinpoints of light had been marred by tall, dark shapes. He frowned.  _ Animals? _ he wondered.

Then, as the shapes began to curl over the lip of the gorge, the shadows coalesced into human bodies, and Iakov realized that they weren’t animals. They were people, and they were headed for the camp.

He grabbed his kopis from the ground beside him, and crawled as stealthily as he could to Stefanos’ tent. He glanced at the men in long cloaks making steady progress down the rockface, and a thrill at the prospect of combat after days and days of boredom ran through him. The fire was but a handful of embers, so it was dim enough that the intruders wouldn’t have seen Iakov—or so he hoped.

He slipped inside Stefanos’ tent and jostled the sleeping man awake. Stefanos’ eyes blinked open. “Iakov? What are you–?”

“Be quiet,” he murmured, his lips close to Stefanos’ ear. “Our camp is under attack. I counted maybe ten or eleven men, though there could be more.”

“Armed?” Stefanos asked after he registered Iakov’s words.

“Possibly.”

“Bandits?”

“Possibly.”

Stefanos licked his lips. “Shall we rouse the others?”

“No time. The commotion should wake them.”

“Someone’s spoiling for a fight,” Stefanos huffed, a slight smile on his lips.

Iakov grinned. “Don’t pretend like you don’t love this.”

“You know me so well,” Stefanos admitted, fully smirking now. He grabbed his spear while Iakov peeled away the smallest section of the tent flap to glance outside. Sure enough, the bandits were headed straight for the cargo, slinking towards the canvas-covered carts. They kept glancing over their shoulders, and their feet made no noise.

“They’re headed for the cargo, dead on. What shall we do?” whispered Iakov, ducking back into the tent.

“Follow my lead.” Stefanos gave him a wry smile. He gripped Iakov’s good shoulder, fixed him with a steady look as though he was about to say something else, but nodded instead and slipped out of the tent.

Iakov crept out of the tent and made a slow arc around the left side of the carts, body low to the ground. The bandits had torn through the canvas and had already cracked open a few crates, steadily working their way through them all.

There were two guards, and Iakov watched Stefanos slide behind the one closest to him, so he moved to the other. They hadn’t been noticed yet. He slung his kopis into their sheaths—perhaps there would be no use for them yet—and clamped one hand over the guard’s mouth from behind, the other twisting the xiphos out of his hand. Iakov dragged the guard backwards into the shadows before he was seen, and he sliced through the guard’s throat with the man’s own blade. He glanced up, dropping the body, and saw that the second guard was gone; Stefanos must’ve taken care of him.

“Where is Hektor and Aeschylus?” asked a reedy voice suddenly, and it was the end of their luck. Iakov assumed that those names belonged to the guards he and Stefanos had just dispatched.

When the bandits realized the guards were gone they went on high alert, drawing their weapons and forming a tight circle around the carts.

_ Well, fuck,  _ thought Iakov, sighing. He drew his hood and slipped the xiphos into his belt, swapping it out for his twin kopis. He crouched and waited for some kind of sign from Stefanos, something to let him know he should advance and attack.

Suddenly the fire was snuffed, and the entire camp was plunged into darkness. The only light was a watery glow coming from a pale half-moon in the night sky.

Iakov felt a strong hand at his elbow, and another at the small of his back. “They’re not bandits,” murmured Stefanos’ voice from behind him, his breath warm on Iakov’s cheek. “They’re members of the Order. I found the insignia branded into that guard’s forearm.”

Iakov swallowed thickly. “How did they find us?”

“I don’t know.”

“They must be looking for the map.”

“Well, we can’t let them go—even if they don’t find it.”

“Agreed.”

“Do you trust me, Iakov?”

Iakov nodded, and he was surprised, because he did trust Stefanos. He wondered briefly if the man he used to be would approve of the man he had become; a man who trusted Athenians. _Probably not,_  he decided.

Stefanos' voice was a soft whisper in the dark. “Okay. Go on three… two…  _ one _ .”

Iakov sprang forward, slipping through the gaps between the carts as he plowed through the Hydra operatives, Stefanos at his heels. The sound of steel clanging on steel rang out through the camp and echoed off the high stone walls. The feeble moon turned Iakov’s blades to silver, and he grinned wolfishly as he rammed both kopis to the hilt into the chest of one of the operatives. He kicked the man off his now crimson-slicked blades and rolled just in time to avoid the sweeping arc of another’s xiphos. Iakov whirled around on his attacker and swung fast and low to cut through the muscle of the man’s calves. The operative screamed as he dropped to his knees, and Iakov wasted no time in sinking his kopis into the man’s back. He paused to glance round for Stefanos, and there Stefanos stood, fending off two operatives at once, his spear in one hand, a xiphos in the other.

But… it  _ wasn’t  _ Stefanos.

He was a man wearing Stefanos’ face, he  _ looked  _ just like Stefanos, but he was… taller, more heavily-built. His muscles flexed and bulged as he moved with surprising grace. His chiton, clearly made for a smaller person, rode up his thighs and stretched across his broad chest and shoulders as he fought. He looked like a god on earth if there ever was one. Iakov’s throat went suddenly, uncomfortably dry.

“ _ Stefanos _ ?” he gasped, eyes wide. “What in Hades’ name–?”

Stefanos, or whoever it was, knocked the operatives onto their backs and rammed the spear through the chest of one, then the other. He gave Iakov a sheepish smile before lunging forward to drive his spear into an operative behind Iakov; the man keeled over, his arm still raised over his head with a knife in his grip. Iakov was in a daze.

“I’ll explain later,” Stefanos said, and he grabbed the front of Iakov’s chiton, yanking him out of the way of another operative who was swinging his xiphos wildly at them. Stefanos set his jaw, blocking every careless lunge, before thrusting his spear into the operative’s shoulder, pinning him to the ground and then wrenching the weapon out. The operative’s scream was loud and horrible.

The others were soon awakened by the commotion of battle and were quick to throw themselves into the fight. “An invitation would have been nice,” muttered Dugan as he parried a heavy blow.

“My apologies, I left my parchment and inks back at the Sanctuary,” Iakov replied as he slammed the butt of one of his kopis against an operative’s skull and down he went. Iakov was still reeling from seeing Stefanos in… a different form, if that was what had happened.

He couldn’t see Stefanos, for the shadows in the camp were deep and unyielding. He had hoped to catch another glimpse of his companion in that unfamiliar—but not entirely unpleasant—body, but he was unsuccessful.

Iakov shook his head and threw himself into the fight, putting all thought of Stefanos out of his mind. He spun and ducked and parried each blade that came his way, relished every lunge and twist his body gave, and reveled in the pull in his muscles.

The Assassins fought fiercely. The air was heavy with blood and Iakov’s clothes and arms were splattered with it. His bad shoulder began to ache faintly, but he ignored it, because here, in the thick of battle, was where Iakov belonged. He loved it. It was what he lived for. It was all he had known.

The last operative, however, managed to catch Iakov unawares, and the man’s xiphos sliced Iakov’s right side open. Iakov gasped and doubled over gracelessly. Blood began to well up from the gash and trickle thickly down his abdomen. His hands, dropping his weapon and closing around the wound, came away stained scarlet. The world went blindingly white for a long minute as he sank onto his uninjured side, his weight falling on his bad shoulder. It only added to the cacophony of agony in his head. Iakov blinked hard to clear his vision, and saw the operative grin toothily as he raised the blade in his hand to finish the job. He closed his eyes, gritted his teeth, and waited for the inevitable.

But the blow never came. Iakov opened one eye slowly.

A spearhead jutted out from the operative’s chest, and Iakov was certain that it hadn’t been there a moment ago. The man was frozen in place. His mouth had fallen open, and his eyes were wide with surprise, even in death. The spearhead receded with a sickening squelch, and the body dropped to the ground.

Stefanos stood behind him, his chest and shoulders heaving, skin slick with sweat and spattered with blood that was not his own. The moon shone behind his head like some sort of otherworldly halo, and there was a cut on his cheekbone that was healing even as Iakov stared at it. The spear in his hands glowed faintly. He was no longer muscled like Herakles, but rather he was… himself. Wiry and lean and sharp-edged and  _ angry. _

“What… what are you?” asked Iakov quietly, voice wavering, fighting to stay conscious. The bodies of Hydra operatives were scattered round the camp, and his men’s weapons were still warm from battle.

There was one operative, however, whom they had kept alive for questioning, and he was knocked unconscious; Morita was binding his limbs. The others began disassembling the camp—no point in staying when the threat of more and better armed operatives charging them was imminent.

“You need medical attention,” said Stefanos, ignoring the question, kneeling beside Iakov and surveying the damage done to him. Iakov tried to speak, but Stefanos laid two fingers on his lips. “Save your strength,” he murmured, signalling to the others.

Iakov struggled to keep his eyes open as Dugan, Stefanos, and Morita carried him to his tent. He writhed on his bedroll, body contorting with pain. He gritted his teeth and shivered as Gabriel cut away the now crimson cloth sticking to the wound, and bit back a hiss while the wound was cleaned and bandaged. He vaguely registered Stefanos stroking his fingers through his hair, smoothing it away from his damp forehead and murmuring words of comfort to him. His hand found Stefanos’ sometime amidst the haze of pain, and he held on tightly. Stefanos squeezed back reassuringly, and did not once let him go.

When it was all over, and Gabriel had made him drink something sharp and slightly bitter that managed to dull the pain, Iakov’s fingers loosened around Stefanos’, and the latter soon exited the tent with the others.

“We need to leave as soon as possible,” said Stefanos to Rumlow, standing outside Iakov’s tent. Iakov closed his eyes and listened to the low rumble of his voice.  “How long until the others are ready?”

“Not long, Lochagos, we will be able to leave before the sun rises. But Iakov… he will not be strong enough to make the journey. Perhaps we should consider—”

“We are  _ not  _ leaving him behind. That is non-negotiable.”

Iakov stared up at the canvas roof of his tent, bewildered.  _ Why was leaving me behind ever an option?  _ he wondered, frowning.

“What if he rides with me?” asked Stefanos suddenly, after a thoughtful pause.

Iakov could almost see Rumlow’s brow furrowing. “What do you mean?”

“Would it not be less strenuous for him to ride with someone else at the reins?”

“I… yes, but –”

“And he is my secondary, so why should he not ride with me?”

“Well, you would be responsible for his safety and care, in that case.”

“That will not be an issue,” Stefanos said, flicking his wrist dismissively. “Secure the cargo and tell the others that we leave before dawn.”

“But –”

“That’s an  _ order _ , Rumlow.”

Rumlow sighed. “Very well, Lochagos. Shall I scout ahead?”

“I think that would be wise. Return with good speed. We will wait for you.” Iakov watched Rumlow nod, and leave. Stefanos re-entered the tent, eyes lighting up when Iakov offered him a small, weak smile.

“You’re going to regret saying that,” mumbled Iakov eyes half-lidded. His head was full of fog.

“Saying what?” asked Stefanos, sitting cross-legged beside Iakov and taking his hand without being asked. Iakov was secretly thrilled at the contact.

“That… that you’ll take care of me.”

Stefanos raised one incredulous eyebrow. “Well, would you rather I leave you here to die?”

Iakov gave him a lopsided grin. “An hour saddled with me and you’ll wish you had.”

“Try me, Enōmotarches.” There was a glint in Stefanos’ eye.

“Mm. You’re going to regret saying that, too,” Iakov murmured, slurring his words a little bit.

Stefanos laughed then, a small, surprised laugh, and Iakov felt the sound warm him up from the inside.

“Can you believe it?” Iakov scoffed. “The first fight we stumble upon, and  _ I’m _ the injured one. The gods are surely smiling down on me. I can  _ feel _ it.”

Stefanos snorted. “Oh, stop it. You fought well today. You just… got a little bit careless, is all.” The right corner of his mouth pulled into a half-smile that made Iakov’s heart kick into a slightly higher tempo. “Perhaps someday… you and I can spar together,” he added, gaze fixed on their twined fingers. A voice in the back of Iakov’s mind told him that holding hands was not something that two friends—were they friends?—normally did, let alone two grown men. But right now Stefanos’ solid grip was the only thing keeping him tethered to the ground, and he was certain that if he let go, he would simply drift away.

So he held on to Stefanos, and did not think of the implications, focusing instead on the intoxicating ache that made his whole body throb and sweat. Pain was an easier thing to think about.

“When we spar, your defeat will be crushing. I hope—I hope your ego survives it,” Iakov gasped, forcing a smile that felt like a grimace.

Stefanos laughed again, but this time it didn’t sound genuine; the corners of his mouth were tight with worry. “Big talk from someone who just got stabbed.”

Iakov managed to roll his eyes. “I believe that there is a… a special place in Tartarus for those who insult a man on his deathbed.”

“You are  _ not _ going to die because of this,” Stefanos said after a pause, his jaw firm. “Not on my watch.” He carefully raised Iakov’s hand to his mouth and let his eyes slide shut. His lips moved soundlessly against Iakov’s skin. A prayer, perhaps?

It was a long while before he opened his eyes again and laid Iakov's hand down. “Sleep, you aggravating, annoying man. I will wake you when it is time to depart.” Stefanos picked up his spear and touched Iakov's brow.

Then Iakov felt fire from Stefanos’ fingertips, surging through his body and lighting him up from within. Lightning crackled under his skin. The pain vanished like mist at sunrise, and he remembered no more.


	8. Chapter Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let's call this one a cutscene of sorts, shall we?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i dont recall saying i wouldnt have any more puny chapters but this one is puny for Purposes so dont @ me

“Were you intercepted?” The hooded man’s voice was low and full of tempered excitement.

“Yes, sir. We were caught in the ravine, right on schedule.”

“And?”

A hesitant pause. “They… they were able to subdue the attack, sir.”

The man pursed his lips as he turned this over in his mind. His expression soured. “Are you telling me that a group of six  _ children _ were able to overcome a coordinated attack from your men, in whose ability you take such pride?”

The other man—younger, dark-haired, frightened but determined not to show it—swallowed hard. “Yes, sir.”

“Did we get the map, at least?”

“...No, sir, but–”

“Then  _ why _ , pray tell, have you decided to show your face here?” The words dripped venom. The smile that followed was dangerous and acidic.

The younger man stood up straighter then, his black eyes gleaming. His voice shook with all the courage he had summoned into it. “I came to report something. Something of great interest—to this mission and to you.”

“Oh? Well, spit it out, and we shall see if it holds water.”

“The Lochagos is in possession of the Spear, sir,” the younger said firmly, willing his hands to stop shaking.

The other froze. He scrutinized the young man carefully. “What did you say?” he asked, hardly daring to believe it.

“The Spear of Leonidas, sir. I think that the spear the Lochagos wields is one and the same.”

“What proof do you have of this?”

“You have seen him, sir, the sickly child that he is. And yet,  _ I _ saw him last night, cutting down my trained soldiers as though he was merely swatting flies. He was… a different man, sir, he was… descended from the gods, or perhaps a god himself, it seemed, what with the way he fought.”

The other man paused, deep in thought. “And you are certain that this was indeed the Lochagos, and not someone else? Or a trick?”

“If I am wrong, then on my own head be the consequences,” he replied, standing straighter, raising his chin ever so slightly. He would not be intimidated.

The smile he received in return was a double-edged sword. “So be it. Return to the others, for now. Do not arouse their suspicion against you.” The older man sighed in a satisfied kind of way. “I think our Spartan friend will be most pleased with this development. I will be sure to give him the news.”

“Will you tell him that it came from me?”

“Of course. He will need someone to blame when you are proved wrong.” A cold shudder ran down the length of the younger man’s spine, and he clenched his jaw. “Hail Hydra,” the older added, and that meant the meeting was over. His hood had fallen away from his face, to reveal a cleanshaven head and cold, calculating eyes.

“Hail Hydra,” the young man echoed. His hands were still shaking when he left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> to anyone who guessed who these hydra fucktards are: buy yourself a cookie and say it's from me. thats your prize.


	9. Chapter Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iakov dreams strange dreams as he recovers from his injuries.

Rumlow relayed to the others what he had seen: a flat expanse of path ahead of them that sloped downwards, leading out of the gorge and meandering into a forest. He was certain that they were not far from Gytheio, and the others gave a collective sigh of relief. They were ready to go before the sun reared its head above the horizon. Which meant that Iakov was able to snatch only a few hours of sleep before he had to face the day.

The hostage was interrogated in this time, and he was terrified but stubborn. Dugan, Falsworth, and Gabriel were unable to get anything new out of him, not even the name of his employer or how he and his companions had known where to find them, and Stefanos, clicking his tongue in annoyance, gave the order for his execution. It was quick and painless, and that was only mercy he was shown.

Iakov’s now riderless horse was secured to a cart with Falsworth’s. Iakov was seated behind Stefanos on the latter’s horse, his side cleaned and tightly bandaged by Gabriel, and his arms firm around Stefanos’ slim waist. Stefanos rode slowly, so as to not jostle Iakov and open his wound again. Iakov, wearied to the bone and feeling slightly dizzy from blood loss, could do nothing but slump his head against Stefanos’ shoulder blades and try to keep his breathing even.

After a while, Stefanos began to sing quietly, and Iakov felt the music rumbling gently inside Stefanos’ chest rather than hear it, and it was soft and sweet and sorrowful. He couldn’t grasp the words, but the melody was enough to ease his pain—if only a little bit, if only for a while. He sighed. Stefanos’ skin was warm through the linen of his chiton, and despite this and the growing heat of day, Iakov shivered. His side ached, but not as fiercely as yesterday.

“Are you alright?” asked Stefanos quietly.

“I’m fine.”

“You can be honest with me, Iakov.”

“I’m  _ fine,  _ stop worrying.”

“Don’t do that.” Stefanos sounded exasperated.

“Do what?”

“Don’t pretend like you’re not in pain. You haven’t moved or talked since we left, and I remember you promising to make my life a living hell this morning.”

“Well, I’m sorry I couldn’t deliver on that, but it’s a little bit difficult for me to stay conscious right now,” Iakov snapped.

Stefanos went silent, and Iakov felt guilt welling up inside his chest, tightening into an uncomfortable knot. When the quiet became unbearable, he spoke.

“Stefanos, I’m–”

“Sorry?” he cut in. “Don’t be. I deserved that."

“No, you–”

“I did,” Stefanos sighed. “Look, I apologize, I… I’m worried about you. I just want you to be alright."

Iakov was surprised at that. He blinked once, twice, thrice. Then, something slowly became clear to him.

“Is this… about your friend? The—the one whom I remind you of?”

Stefanos went rigid under Iakov’s hands. His shoulders grew tense and his posture stiff. Iakov got the feeling that he had brought up a sensitive topic.

“We don’t need to discuss this. Forgive me for bringing it up,” Iakov said slowly.

Stefanos exhaled, and as he did the tension left his body. He seemed to slump against Iakov’s chest. “I would like to tell you about it. About him. But…” he sighed again, sounding exhausted and resigned, and Iakov’s gut twisted because he hated seeing him like this: back bowing under the weight of his past and of his responsibilities. “But not right now. Not yet.”

Iakov leaned his forehead against the nape of Stefanos’ neck, hoping that whatever strength he had left he could give to Stefanos, and hoping that it would be enough for him to pull through.

“Whenever you’re ready, please know that—that I will be here, and I will listen."

Stefanos cast a small, grateful smile over his shoulder. “Thank you.” He licked his lips. “Is there anything I can do for you?” Iakov knew he was talking about the injury, about whether there was anything to be done for the pain that gnawed ceaselessly at the back of his thoughts.

“You were singing, earlier,” he answered after a moment.

“Ah. Was I any good?”

“Eh. Passable,” Iakov teased.

“You can’t even give me a little praise?” Stefanos asked, feigning shock, but the amusement in his voice was undeniable.

“If I praised you, how would you improve?” Iakov retorted, grinning.

“So my singing needs improvement?”

“We all stand to improve even in the things that we are perfect at, Lochagos.”

Stefanos laughed, and it felt good and real. It felt… familiar, in a way that Iakov did not know was possible. “Truer words have never been spoken,” Stefanos said. He paused and shifted the reins in his grip. “Did it help?” he asked, almost tentatively.

Iakov hummed. “As much as anything can.”

It seemed a decent enough reply, and so Stefanos sang. Softly, slowly, for nobody else besides Iakov, his horse, and the gentle breeze sifting through the gorge. He sang long into the day, sliding effortlessly from one song into another, and Iakov felt every word, every note, every pause the other took to breathe. He did not raise his head from Stefanos’ nape, and his fingers absently traced shapes where they rested on Stefanos’ hips.

He was overwhelmed, and he was tired. He wanted nothing more than to lie down and allow Stefanos’ voice, low and warm like the orange-gold light of sunset, to carry him away to distant and quiet places. He wanted to  _ rest. _

But most of all, Iakov was afraid. A week ago he and Stefanos had been strangers and now, Iakov felt like he had known Stefanos all his life. He cared for Stefanos, simply put. He cared for him deeply, like a friend, like a brother, like… something more? Family? Either way, he did not know when his heart started to beat faster at the mere thought of the young blond man sitting in front of him, with the hard jaw and eyes like clear water. He did not know how it came about, or why, but it was there now, and seemed permanently lodged in his chest, spreading between his ribs and clawing its way up his throat like unruly grapevines. Every point of contact between them felt charged, and at the same time it felt so incredibly  _ right  _ that he could feel it in his very bones.

His head began to ache. He wondered what would become of them when this mission was over. Would they remain in contact? Or would they part ways? He forced those thoughts aside, and the uneasiness in his stomach seemed to wane slightly. There was time for that yet.

* * *

 

Iakov's dreams that night were far too hot, and his skin prickled with the intensity of it. He floated in and out of oversaturated worlds, the colors eye-wateringly bright and every stimulus like a red-hot branding rod on his mind. In these dreams, he saw Stefanos.

They were in a field together, wrestling in the lush grass, grappling onto each other and sweating through the material of their clothes. Stefanos' skin was covered in freckles, and his eyes were fantastically blue in the electric heat of midday. Iakov caught him by the hip and flipped him onto his back, and Stefanos hit the ground with a  _ thud.  _ The blond man began to laugh, throwing his head back and closing his eyes as his joy spread his mouth into a wide grin. Iakov's hand was still curled around that razor-edged hip, and he felt the sound rumbling through Stefanos' chest and into his.

The sun was suddenly shrouded by clouds and thunder growled in the distance, loud and menacing. It grew dark in an instant. Iakov filled with fear, because Stefanos was gone. He pulled himself to his feet and whirled around, calling for Stefanos, but there was no reply. The sky, now charred like blackened coals, pressed around him and the wind picked up, sucking the voice out of his throat. He could hear Stefanos calling him, but it was too feeble to pick out any words. Stefanos was asking for something, and he sounded sad. Unbearably, unfathomably sad.

Iakov ran towards the source of the sound, his heart in his mouth. He ran on and on, and then he fell, and fell, and fell, and his whole body ached. All the while he wished that he had the words and the courage to tell him how his very presence made Iakov's heart clench in his chest. He wanted to tell Stefanos that he would give anything, absolutely anything in the world, if only Stefanos would ask for it.

It seemed as though he would never emerge from these nightmares shrouded in shadow. Every so often Iakov imagined that Stefanos was with him, his face open and worried as he pressed a damp cloth to Iakov's forehead, or held water to Iakov's mouth in cupped, trembling hands. Iakov imagined a pair of lips pressing against his temple through the haze of uncomfortable heat and sweat-soaked blankets tangling around his limbs. He felt vividly, tangibly, the sensation of a cool mouth on his overwarm skin, of a damp cloth being swiped over his face and neck. He imagined a pair of hands clasped around his own, and cautious prayers being breathed shakily onto his knuckles. These moments were a blessed respite from the clockwork of dreams and nightmares, but they weren't real. They couldn't be real. He thrashed and cried out, because his skin was far too  _ tight _ to contain him. There was a blinding light behind his eyes that only grew and grew, and it was though he was withering from it, wasting away from the inside out.

Suddenly there was a pair of hands cradling his head and a soft voice humming low in his ear. " _ Gods _ , Iakov–I've got you, don't worry," breathed Stefanos. "I've got you."

Iakov stilled, and his racing heart gradually calmed down. He was unable to move his arms and legs. He opened his eyes, blinking slowly as he took in his surroundings. He was in his tent, lying atop his bedroll. Stefanos sat back on a single wooden stool standing vigil by Iakov's side. He was smiling an exhausted, thrilled sort of smile. There were dark shadows beneath Stefanos' eyes, a testament to his sleepless nights. But he was still exuding his mysterious light, still marvelously gold even in the darkened tent, and even though it wasn't as bright as it was before, it had not diminished, rather it had taken on a calmer quality. He looked smaller now, smiling giddily at Iakov as though he could hardly believe that the other was alive himself. He looked a little less immortal.

Iakov's mouth was dry and stale, and he was unable to prop himself up onto his elbows. His body was weak, and the back of his throat tasted sour. "Water," he croaked, voice rusted like an old sword. Stefanos nodded, reaching out of Iakov's line of sight to fill a cup with water before trickling it into Iakov's mouth carefully. Iakov drank deeply, until the cup was empty. When he finished, he licked his lips and stared up at the dappled canvas. "What happened to me?" he asked softly.

"I don't know how long you were sick. There was a fever that wasn't breaking, and I… I thought—" Stefanos' voice cracked and he dug the heels of his palms into his eyes, shoulders slumping. "I thought we were going to lose you. I thought  _ I  _ was going to lose you."

Iakov knew now that he hadn’t been dreaming. Stefanos really had been here, he really had been taking care of him and watching over him, giving him water and sitting by his bedside while he was in the grip of that fever. His heart lurched.

"You couldn't get rid of me that easily. You're stuck with me until the end of the line," Iakov said, not quite meeting Stefanos' gaze. It sounded like a promise, but they were both exhausted, so it could have been anything, and therefore it was nothing. Still, he hoped that all his gratitude, all the joy, all the relief, and all the jolting swoops his stomach gave every time Stefanos smiled at him showed on his face, because he did not know the words to describe such a feeling. It was a song, a song he did not know the lyrics to, but it was one he had heard before, one he had  _ sang _ before. In another life, perhaps. As another man. A man who was less afraid.

"You need to rest now," Stefanos murmured, leaning forward to stroke Iakov's unkempt hair. He wondered how the others were. He wondered for how long Stefanos had kept watch over him, and for how long he had been at the mercy of this sickness, and whether there was a cause for it. He opened his mouth to ask, when Stefanos slid his thumb across Iakov's bottom lip, effectively silencing him. "I said," he began quietly, eyes trained on Iakov's lips, "you need to  _ rest _ . There will be time for questions in the morning."

Iakov's heart began to pound again as he stared up at Stefanos. He did not dare look away. Stefanos looked torn, almost, deep down in his heart, and Iakov could see it in his eyes. He saw hurt, and he saw fear. Stefanos sighed then and pressed a hesitant, chaste kiss to Iakov's forehead. 

It was like he had been struck by a small zap of lightning. The initial shock was soon overcome by something like thick, warm honey, spreading out from his heart to every cell in his body. He felt the breath leave his lungs in a single, soft  _ whoosh. _

"There will be time in the morning," Stefanos echoed before he pulled away. The loss of his proximity left Iakov breathless and aching, and a part of him wanted nothing more than to grab Stefanos and crash their lips together properly. But he could barely move, and he did not want to unnecessarily complicate things between them.

Nonetheless, with every step Stefanos took away from him, his heart felt like it was breaking more and more, and it was like glass splintering inside a crushing fist.

"Gabriel will, ah, want to check on you. I'll let him know you're awake." Stefanos gave Iakov a lopsided smile, and was about to slip out of the tent, when Iakov called his name weakly.

"Don't go. Please," he whispered, and it sounded so pathetic, even to his own ears. He knew he was being selfish, but he really didn't want to see anybody else right now. He just wanted to lie here in Stefanos' company and close his eyes. His whole body felt like there were millstones trapping it against the bed.

It took only a moment for Stefanos to sigh and return to Iakov's side, to sit down on the stool and take Iakov's unmarked hand in his, to run his fingers through Iakov's unruly hair gently and smooth out the tangles. It was only another moment more when Iakov was awake, staring into the lovely blue of Stefanos' irises, before his eyelids slid shut and he succumbed to his exhaustion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "uberpool but with horses and confusing feelings, followed by lsd pining." ~ a friend


	10. Chapter Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stefanos talks about his past, and Iakov starts to realize something that everyone already knew.

Iakov was woken some time later by the sound of his name in a voice that wasn't Stefanos'. He tilted his head and saw Gabriel in the doorway.

"Hi," he croaked, his lips chapped and tongue like a pile of sand in his mouth. He forced a smile onto his face.

Gabriel sighed, relief flooding his features like a dam bursting forth. "You stupid,  _ stupid  _ man," he laughed, crossing the room to Iakov and dropping to his knees beside the bed. He began to check Iakov's vitals carefully, and Iakov allowed him. "Of all the people who I thought were going to give me a hard time, I never would have guessed that you would be at the top of the list."

"What can I say? I aim to please."

"Shut up," Gabriel said, rolling his eyes fondly. "How is your stomach? Stefanos told me you haven't been keeping any food or water down."

"It's better now, I think. He gave me some water earlier and I haven't thrown it up yet, which I'm taking as a good sign."

"It's as good a sign as any." Gabriel drew out a skin of water and some dried figs and handed these to Iakov, who began to eat them slowly. "I have to tell you, Iakov," Gabriel said quietly, "you really gave us quite a scare. I've encountered many fevers in my time, but…" he shook his head as though dispelling some foul thought. "That wasn't like anything I've ever seen. What I'm trying to say is: you, my friend, are one lucky bastard."

"How did it happen?" Iakov asked, cautiously swallowing down the figs. When he didn't immediately feel the urge to gag, he nibbled on some more.

"I don't know. I wish I could tell you more, but I really don't know."

Iakov hummed vacantly. "Was… Stefanos here… the whole time?"

Gabriel nodded. "Refused to leave your side, even to sleep." Iakov felt his cheeks grow warm and something sickly sweet and fond unfurled inside his chest. "He cares about you a great deal, you know. We all can see it; we aren't total imbeciles," he went on.

"I never said you were."

"So. What about you?"

"What about me?"

"Do you care about him?"

"Of course I do. What kind of a question is that?"

Gabriel clicked his tongue. "You misunderstand me. I meant do you care about him the way that he cares about you, you great idiot?"

"He doesn't care about me any special way. He… he trusts me a little more, maybe, but that is only because I am his secondary. That is as deep as it goes." Iakov finished off the figs and drank some water. It felt good and cool on his tongue, but still he drank slowly. Gabriel hummed and shrugged his shoulders, motioning for Iakov to undo the upper fastenings of his chiton so that he could examine the wound. Iakov frowned as he fiddled with the clasps. "What are you insinuating, Gabriel?" he asked suspiciously.

Gabriel undid the rest of the clasps to expose Iakov's chest and stomach, and then he began to unwind the bandages. "Nothing. I'm not insinuating anything," he replied. "As your friend, I am merely saying that I'm happy for you. It isn't easy to find someone like that."

"That someone being…?"

"Kind. Intelligent. And, if I may be so bold as to say, fantastically easy on the eyes."

"By the  _ gods,  _ Gabriel!" Iakov hissed, cheeks growing warm.

Gabriel suppressed a smirk, before his face grew serious. "I'm being honest, Iakov. Stefanos… he is a good man, and it is in good men that we are lacking. But you need to bear in mind that caring comes with consequences, for both of you. Caring is not… an advantage, not in this life. You know that as well as I."

Iakov briefly contemplated snapping at Gabriel with a rude remark, but he sighed, and all the fight left his body. Gabriel was just looking out for him. He meant no harm. "I understand," Iakov said. "He's a friend. I care about him like I care about you, or any of the others. I assure you that I don't have any… misplaced feelings for him."

Gabriel raised an eyebrow but let the subject drop. "Alright. I'll finish changing you bandages and then you must sleep. Do you hear me?" he asked sternly.

"Loud and clear,  _ mother _ ," Iakov replied, smiling in his most pleasant way, and Gabriel rolled his eyes.

"Silence, arrogant son of mine, and hold still," he said, chuckling as he set about his task.

* * *

 

The land began to slope gently downwards, leading the Assassins out of the gorge. The slow tempo set by the horses’ hooves on the hardened ground and the faint rustle of trees in the distance—surely the forest that Rumlow had talked about was nearing—managed to quiet the racket inside Iakov’s head. He breathed deeply through his nose, and that lessened the roiling in his gut.

They stopped to eat when the sun was high, and they could see the towering walls of the gorge tapering off in the distance. They ate in silence, and when they were finished Gabriel checked over Iakov’s injury, remarking that it was healing surprisingly well for such a deep wound, and Iakov suddenly remembered Stefanos pushing lightning through his body from his fingertips, and made a small mental note to ask him about this and about the godlike supersoldier he had witnessed during the fight. For now, though, he leaned into Stefanos’ shoulder and closed his eyes.

They mounted their horses and set out again, and the slope of the land grew steeper. They slowed their pace even further, so that the horses would not slip on loose gravel and fall.

They escaped the gorge soon enough, leaving its high sunburnt walls behind, and keeping their eyes on a dark smudge of forest up ahead.

The path evened itself out, but then it started to narrow, and they were forced to travel single file rather than two abreast. The trees grew closer and closer together as they plodded along, until the azure sky was blocked out entirely by a canopy of green dappled with liquid sunlight. The forest floor was dry and the sound of leaves rustling and twigs snapping under the horses’ feet filled the air.

Stefanos’ singing had dropped to a tuneless hum, low and almost inaudible. The air was cooler here—only marginally, but anything was better than the full weight of the sun bearing down on their backs—and they could hear birds and squirrels chittering in the branches high above their heads.

They rode well into the evening, and the path was quickly overgrown with roots, such that they had to dismount and lead the horses on by the reins to avoid any accidents. Stefanos insisted that Iakov remain on the horse, and Iakov gave little protest.

Night brought with it the rustlings of creatures that hunted by the moon, but posed no real threat to a group of trained and well-armed Assassins. They walked on, and on, and on, the horses dragging their hooves beside them, the large wheels of the carts flattening the ground behind. Falsworth, Dugan, Dernier, and Gabriel’s quiet voices filled the air as they sang to keep the curious animals away.

Iakov felt the dull ache spread from his side to his lower back, then crawl up his spine to the nape of his neck, until his whole body pounded with it. His bad shoulder was stiff and throbbed with the slightest movement. He could barely keep himself upright in the saddle. Morita must have noticed him, or perhaps he was exhausted as well, because his voice rang out just then. “Perhaps we should stop now, Lochagos,” he called from the back of the line.

Stefanos halted. He glanced up, looking around him, then craned his neck to the night sky, still shrouded with leaves. He blinked, almost as if he was surprised at how dark it had gotten. Iakov frowned. Something was weighing heavily on the other man’s mind, it seemed.

“Ah. I think so, yes,” Stefanos murmured absently, frowning. “Yes. Uh, we’ll stop here for tonight, everyone. Set up the tents.”

They lead the horses off the path and began clearing space on the forest floor to pitch their tents. Dugan wandered off to find firewood. Falsworth was forcing Rumlow into making small talk, and the Athenian didn’t seem too pleased about it, but obliged him anyway.

Iakov dismounted—though not without a great deal of wincing and hissing—and put one hand on Stefanos’ shoulder. “Are you alright?” he asked, concern drawing his brows together, and something in Stefanos’ face melted. He sighed.

“I am. It’s nothing. You shouldn’t be worried about me.”

“You know that thing that you told me not to do? You’re doing that right now,” countered Iakov. “Tell me what bothers you.” Stefanos managed a small smile.

“Will you walk with me for awhile after dinner?” he asked.  _ Can we talk about this later; not in front of everyone?  _ was what he meant, and Iakov understood.

“Of course.”

The tents were pitched. The fire was lit. Food was passed around. There was bread that was steadily going stale, cured meat, dried fruit and fish, and heady wine, of which Iakov allowed himself only a sip. The horses had food aplenty here, and they nuzzled at the richly laden forest floor, whinnying happily now and again.

Rumlow, Dugan, Falsworth, and Dernier retired to their tents soon after eating. Morita and Gabriel sat by the fire, talking in low voices and cleaning their weapons. It was easy for Stefanos and Iakov to slip away.

They walked slowly, and in companionable silence. The air was cool and slightly damp, as though it promised of rain in the near future, and crickets chirped in the undergrowth. Stefanos was deep in thought, but his hand found Iakov’s in the dark as they walked, and his fingers slipped through Iakov’s, squeezing tight.

They fell into step beside each other, and soon they came upon a clearing. They lowered themselves onto the forest floor, stretched out on their backs. There was the faint sound of the night insects crooning to life around them. The wind was breathless as it moved through the tired boughs of the trees. Stefanos stared at the inky sky thrown open before them with an unblinking gaze and whisper-parted lips. Iakov saw the stars in his eyes.

“Tell me about yourself, Iakov,” said Stefanos suddenly, and his voice seemed louder than it was, puncturing the silence like a needle through cloth.

“What do you want to know?” asked Iakov.

“Anything at all. Whatever you want me to know,” Stefanos said, and he tilted his head to face Iakov, inadvertently turning that steel gaze onto him. Suddenly it was like Iakov was being held at knifepoint. “What do you do to pass the time?”

“I don't have a lot of free time,” Iakov answered, sighing a little, holding Stefanos’ gaze. “Either I'm running around for Carter or my stepfather, or I'm training or on patrol.”

“So you have nothing you do that makes you happy? Aside from the work?”

Iakov pondered his reply, before a wry grin curled his lips. “Does sleeping count?” he asked, and Stefanos barked a short, surprised laugh. “In all honesty, though,” Iakov said, his voice and gaze dropping. “This life is all I have known. The work is all that matters. So… so why shouldn’t it make me happy?”

Stefanos hummed. “Fair enough.”

Iakov picked at the nail of his thumb. “Do you have… things that you do in your free time?”

“I paint,” came the simple reply.

“Really? What do you paint?”

“Stories,” said Stefanos, and he was smiling fondly at some untouchable, sun-warmed memory. “I am not endowed with the gift of words, so I show my feelings through my art. And my fists, when the situation calls for it,” he added, eliciting a snort and an eyeroll from Iakov.

They lapsed into silence.

“Stefanos?” Iakov began then, working up the courage to ask the question on his mind. Stefanos hummed in reply. “You–you did something… the other day. You… changed. During the fight, and after, right before I passed out, I think. Now, I understand if I’m out of line asking, but–”

“No, no. I should have told you before.”

Iakov waited for Stefanos to continue.

“You asked about my spear, once. It was given to me by an… an old friend; Kassandra was her name.” Stefanos sighed. “But she was… more than a friend, she… she was like a sister to me. It was passed down from her grandfather to her mother, from her mother to her, and then to me.” He raised his chin to the sky, and kept his eyes on some pinprick of a star far, far away.

“I told you that night that it was a powerful spear, and it is. It was forged by Hephaistos himself. I could begin to tell you what it can do, and what it can enable the wielder to do, but in these years that I have possessed it even I do not know the full extent of its power. I do know, however,” he added, “that when I call upon it for strength, it will give it to me. As much as I need. Like… a bottomless well that I can draw water from over and over again without it ever running dry. I do need to replenish it, now and again, but it will last a while.”

“You knew Kassandra?” Iakov asked.

“I did. She was a great source of strength to me during a difficult time in my life,” Stefanos sighed. He tilted his head. “Did you know her?”

“I knew  _ of  _ her. I believe Carter knew her personally, but I can’t be sure.” He licked his lips. “Kassandra was incredible. She was… unparalleled as an Assassin. So much so that I still aspire to be as skilled as she.”

“She would have been proud of you. Of how far you’ve come.”

Iakov spluttered and felt his face grow hot. “Thank you,” he managed to say, somehow embarrassed and at the same time preening under Stefanos’ praise. He puzzled for a moment at the choice of words, though.  _ What could it mean? He doesn’t know about my past. _ But the thought quickly perished as he suddenly remembered the burning question on his mind. “What about before I passed out? I was in agony, and you… you touched my forehead, and then the pain was simply… gone. What did you do to me?”

Stefanos bit his lower lip thoughtfully. “Ah.  _ That _ part I’m not entirely sure of. I just… I saw you lying there, bleeding to death, and I wanted more than anything to ease your suffering. And I… the spear must have somehow… carried that out.”

“Have you done it before?”

“Never. What did it feel like?”

“It felt like… like I was being set on fire from the inside. Like you had poured oil under my skin and then struck me with lightning.”

Stefanos winced. “Did it hurt?”

“Not as much as you’d think, surprisingly. It managed to… to melt the pain away, if that makes sense.”

“I see.”

Iakov swiped his tongue over his lower lip. “You really believe that your spear was made by Hephaistos’ hands?”

“I was a skeptic at first, as well, but I’ve seen the things it can do, and there is no other explanation for it.” Stefanos swept his hair out of his eyes. “You have seen and  _ felt _ what it can do.”

Iakov hummed. “When you were fighting, you looked…” he began, and then he stopped himself. What in Hades’ name was the end of that sentence supposed to be?  _ You looked like Herakles—no, you looked like Zeus himself had descended from Olympus; like you could bend thunderstorms in your hands; like you made and hung every star in the sky.  _ What lunatic would even say those words out loud? And to a  _ commanding officer, _ no less?

“I looked like…?” Stefanos prompted. He was leaning back on one elbow, resting on his side, watching Iakov and waiting for his reply.

“You looked…  _ invincible _ ,” Iakov said finally, unable to raise his voice louder than a whisper. “You were untouchable. None of them stood a chance.” Stefanos was quiet after this admission, a faint blush in his face.

“You asked today what was bothering me," Stefanos began slowly, and Iakov waited for him to go on. "I couldn't help but wonder why you took ill so suddenly, and so severely, and now I think I know why."

"Really?"

"I believe… somehow it was… my doing." His voice was low and filled with uncertainty.

Iakov paused, frowned, then scoffed. "That's ridiculous. And anyway, how would you even have accomplished it?"

"When I tried to heal you, it was something I'd never tried before. I do not know about the repercussions. Perhaps that caused…?"

"Listen to me," Iakov said firmly, finding Stefanos' hand and holding on tightly. "You did not hurt me. You did not make me sick. Do you understand? You  _ fixed _ me. I would be a dead man without you, and I will always be grateful that you were there for me."

They did not speak for a long time, but Iakov felt Stefanos shift just a little bit closer to him, such that he could feel the warmth from Stefanos’ skin, and he bit down a small smile.

Finally, it was Stefanos who spoke up again. “My friend was a great man,” he said, his face growing solemn. “More than that, he was a good one. We grew up together, and he knew me better than I knew myself.” He paused and sighed, and scrubbed his hand across his face. Suddenly he looked older, and far more grieved. His eyes spoke of loss that never quite went away or stopped hurting. He sighed again. “I loved him, as much as one man can love another. We were all the other had.

“He was… he was taken, one night. I don’t know where to, and I don’t know by whom. I looked for him for years, relentlessly. It drove me half to madness.” He laughed mirthlessly, but his body was like a over-tightened bowstring, rigid with tension and ready to snap at any second. “For most of my adult life, finding him took precedence over everything else. It was my primary objective, my–my mission. And it is the only one I have ever… failed.”

Iakov took Stefanos’ hand and squeezed it gently. Stefanos squeezed back without glancing at him.

“It’s been ten years now, since he was taken from me. Many believe him to be–” he paused to take a long, shuddering breath. “Many believed him to be dead. But something tells me that he isn’t. I… I know he’s out there, somewhere,  _ alive.  _ I just need to find him.”

Stefanos finally turned his head to face Iakov, and even in the wispy moonlight Iakov could see the tears streaking down his cheeks. His eyes were red-rimmed. Iakov wondered whether all those times that Stefanos was crying late at night were because of this friend he had lost. In that moment he felt Stefanos’ misery acutely; he heard the other man’s thoughts perfectly, so full of pain and shattered glass that Iakov felt it inside his own chest. Like a deep whirlpool of dark water, sucking the joy and the lightness he had felt a few moments ago into its unfathomable depths. It felt all too real, and it felt absolutely crushing. He knew it was only a mere sliver of what Stefanos carried in his heart. And he ached for Stefanos, his friend, who had been silently suffering for days, weeks, months, years like this. He wished he weren’t so helpless, but there was nothing he could do, not really.

“You must think I’m insane,” said Stefanos.

Iakov reached out to wipe away his tears with the flat of his thumb, his hand cupping Stefanos’ jaw as he did.

“Far from it. I think you’re invincible,” he murmured.

“Oh? Even without the muscles?” Stefanos asked wryly, and Iakov felt like the Athenian was slowly but surely returning to his old self again. A small smile played on his lips, but his eyes were still sad.

“ _ Especially _ without the muscles,” Iakov replied, his thumb absently grazing Stefanos’ full bottom lip as he pulled away. It was soft, softer than he had expected, and the contact was like a clap of thunder; a sharp contrast from the sorrow he had felt for his friend. He wondered for a split-second what Stefanos’ soft, warm mouth would feel like against his own, before he chased the thought away, feeling his cheeks flush red.  _ By the gods, pull yourself together, Iakov! What do you think you’re doing? _

Stefanos watched him, and gave him a crooked smile, as if he seemed to know exactly what was running through Iakov’s mind.

“Thank you for telling me about him. I’m…” Iakov trailed off. He was what? Sorry? Sure that Stefanos would find his friend someday? Glad that he trusted Iakov enough to bare his soul to him? Everything seemed like too much, or too little, and nothing felt right.

He sighed, unable to find the words, and instead pressed closer to Stefanos, till they were lined up shoulder to arm to thigh. Stefanos leaned into him, resting his head on Iakov’s shoulder, and twined their fingers together where their hands rested between them.

They lay there in the clearing, drowned in moonlight, their breaths quiet and in tandem. Iakov thought he heard the steady tempo of their heartbeats in the silence that stretched out before them, unspooling like a piece of rope out into the unknown. But perhaps that was just wishful thinking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gabe Jones is the actual mom of the howling commandos hes given the birds and the bees talk to them via powerpoint and packs them lunches with notes that say "get in detention one more time and ill break your knees love you <3" and has their favorite shows on dvd (spoiler: its dinosaur train and clifford the big red dog) and fights the other moms at the PTA who talk smack about them this has been a psa


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They arrive at Gytheio, and Iakov decides that maybe Stefanos isn't all bad

The forest was large, intimidating, and it made them feel like intruders. Every step they took felt watched, and every conversation they had felt listened to. They did not sing or talk very loudly here, hoping that they would not attract the attention of larger, more intimidating creatures. They stopped less frequently to rest.

Iakov rode with Stefanos, and they did not talk much at all—that was saved for the night time. After they had finished eating and the others had long since vanished into their tents, they would steal away from the camp and walk to a quiet place, where they would sit and talk about everything and nothing at all. Iakov told him about his past. He told him about the arenas, about his time as a gladiator, showed him the sun-bleached scars of old on his hands and his heart. He told him how his step-father had rescued him, and had brought him to Sparta, where he studied the ways of the Assassins and became the man he was today. Stefanos, in turn, told him about his childhood, about his paintings, about his home, about his friend. Sometimes they held hands, and sometimes they leaned on each other fully. The contact was grounding and comforting, like a stone pillar supporting a roof.

Iakov found himself looking forward to these late–night expeditions. Occasionally they simply sat beside each other without talking, taking comfort in the silence. Iakov would trace out the constellations in the sky with his index finger, their names leaving his lips in quiet murmurs. Stefanos would tilt his head and listen.

Sometimes, when they were away for so long that the first few streaks of dawn began to glisten through the sighing boughs of the trees, Stefanos would simply lie back and breathe. The languid rise and fall of his chest created a steady rhythm, and with every exhale the tightness in his limbs seemed to drain away. His freckled, sun-kissed skin would turn rosy gold and his eyes to clear ice in the pale light of early morning. The first time it happened, Iakov could feel his heart actually stutter in his chest.  _ He’s so beautiful, _ Iakov thought, and he simply couldn’t recall ever being so enthralled by another human being in his life.

They crossed the forest without incident from the Order, despite being on the lookout for it. Iakov’s wound was healing well, and he was regaining the strength he lost to the fever. Still, he was growing accustomed to nodding off to the sound of music wrapped up in Stefanos’ soft, rumbling voice while they travelled, and even more accustomed to the routine that they had built together. It was more calming than stifling, and definitely a far less dangerous distraction than combat. He looked forward to it, even.

There was something about Stefanos, but Iakov couldn't describe it. Something about how easy it was to talk to him that wasn't there with the others. Something about how simple it was for Iakov to pull his secrets out from inside their cages and drop them into those elegant hands, knowing full well that they would be safe there. Something ridiculously effortless about being with him, baring his soul to him, and having that trust reciprocated in full measure.  _ When I reach out to him, he meets me where I am. _ They were two hands, stretching across a bottomless chasm and clasping tight. They were wearied travellers finding solace in each other, finding rest, finding home.

Their touches grew more frequent, more charged, more welcoming, but Iakov did not mind. Instead, he committed every single one to memory.

“Look,” came Falsworth’s voice one cool morning. The dark tangles of trees had thinned out and became more sparse, and the terrain was littered with patches of sharp grass. The horses ground to a slow halt. The company squinted in the direction that Falsworth’s finger pointed in, and they stilled.

There, in the distance, was a crumble of low, colorful buildings, the first sign of civilization they had seen in weeks. Beyond that the hardened, unyielding earth cut away to a long strip of ochre beach, followed by a smooth, flat band of dark blue silk, shifting and glittering in the sun.

“Gytheio,” Stefanos said, sounding awed and relieved in equal measure. “We made it.”

* * *

 

Surprisingly, finding a boat was no trouble, thanks to another one of Stefanos’ friends, a ship's captain named Samuel Wilson. They loaded their wares onto his simple vessel, small but sturdy, and her name was  _ Redwing _ . Iakov gazed up at the figurehead peering out of the prow. It was a falcon, with its wings outstretched and hooked beak yawning open in a silent screech, fashioned out of wood and metal. He tipped his chin back and drank in the sight of her scarlet mainmast and of her folded canvas sails, and he could almost picture what they would look like unfurled: eggshell white in the bright sun of high noon, the wind ballooning them into wings.

Dugan, Rumlow, and Morita had gone into town to restock their supplies in order to prepare for the next stretch of their trip. In the meantime, the others took the opportunity to take their first real shower in days. Iakov felt a hundred times better after he had scrubbed his skin of the sweat and grime and dried blood caking it. Gabriel changed his bandages and braided his dripping wet hair for him—keeping his arm up for too long could potentially tear the raw skin of the slowly closing wound, and plus it hurt like all hell. Iakov allowed Gabriel to do as he pleased.

The docks were just behind Wilson's home, and  _ Redwing _ was moored there. Dugan called Gabriel over to help him and the others load the goods onto the vessel, and Iakov tried to pitch in, but that was quickly shot down with a glare from Gabriel.

Iakov settled down in the back doorway of Wilson's home, feeling more than a little useless as he watched his men pile things below deck under Wilson’s scrutinizing eye. Rumlow was, unsurprisingly, nowhere to be seen. He must either be in the hold already or still in town.

Iakov spotted Stefanos standing by the gangplank and talking to an officer. The artfully forged papers were in one hand and a polite smile was on his face. After a few moments, the officer took the papers from Stefanos’ and perused them carefully. Iakov wasn’t worried. Anastasia would have done her job exceedingly well, and there was no way they would be detected.

Sure enough, the officer returned the documents to Stefanos and strode off, apparently satisfied. Stefanos caught Iakov’s eye and beamed at him proudly, flashing him a thumbs-up. Iakov grinned and returned the gesture.

Dugan called Stefanos then, and the latter turned sharply at the sound of his name. He said something unintelligible—to Iakov, at least—and beckoned Stefanos to follow him into the hold. Stefanos turned to Iakov and gave him a small wave of his fingers, before he hurried up the gangplank and disappeared below deck, on Dugan's heels.

“He’s happier than I’ve seen him,” said a voice behind Iakov, startling him. Iakov glanced over his shoulder. Wilson stood beside him, leaning into the doorway, arms folded across his chest. His head was tilted and his eyes were curious. Iakov frowned.

He turned back around to stare at the fishing boats sprinkled across the harbor. “What makes you say that?”

“So you know who I’m talking about,” Wilson said, lowering himself to sit down beside Iakov, and Iakov could hear the smile curving his words.

Iakov summoned indifference into his voice and shrugged with one shoulder. “He’s the only one on this team whom you have met before, plus he was standing right there not a minute ago; it wasn’t a difficult leap.”

“Fair enough," Wilson conceded with a shrug. "May I make a statement? Based on my own observations of him, and nothing else?” he asked.

“Go ahead.”

“I think you’re directly linked to the cause of his happiness. I’d go so far as to saying that you  _ are  _ the cause.”

“Okay.”

There was a moment of quiet. “That’s all you have to say?” Wilson asked then, and Iakov saw him frown out of the corner of his eye.

“Yes. You made an observation, and no matter how wildly incorrect it may be, you’re entitled to your own opinions,” Iakov replied coolly, still not looking at Wilson directly.

Wilson laughed. “I can see why he likes you.”

“Are you done?”

“Perhaps. It’s none of my business what the nature of your relationship with him is, but whatever it may be, you… make him happy. This much I know for sure.”

“He is my commanding officer, and more than that, he is my friend. I don’t quite understand what you’re implying,” Iakov snapped venomously, but he was no fool. He knew exactly what Wilson was implying.

“I don’t want to pry. Like I said, it’s none of my business. But I do want to say thank you. He’s been in a… difficult place for a long time, so to see him like this now is a good change of pace.” Before Iakov could reply, Wilson stood up and patted his shoulder before he walked away, the sound of his footsteps quickly receding.

Iakov did not dwell on his words, but kept them close to his heart, where they swelled hot and bright and comforting. He would not soon forget them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first of all, my entire existence peaked when I wrote Sam as the captain of the ship they take, and then went and watched endgame, where Sam becomes captain america. nothing in my life can top this. im not even going to try. nothing i write after this can ever be as good. my unborn children will never live up to this.
> 
> secondly the fact that sam hangs out with bucky for 0.2 seconds and can instantly tell the poor boy is head over heels for steve is the funniest fucking shit to me


	12. Chapter Twelve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stefanos dances on the yardarm, and Iakov does some much-needed introspection.

After an entire hour of begging to allow him to help, Gabriel gave a long-suffering sigh and permitted Iakov to only perform tasks that wouldn't strain him too much. Iakov accepted this compromise gladly, because anything was better than sitting around in his cabin all day. He was tasked with braiding new rope, and while it seemed trivial, he was happy to have something to do. He settled himself down in the prow and set about his work without complaint.

It had been five days since they had bid Gytheio goodbye. Just yesterday morning they watched as coast disappeared beyond the horizon, and all the sea was the only thing for miles in all directions. They were on course for Crete, and Wilson had estimated the trip to last a few weeks, two or three if Poseidon looked upon them in favor.

The sun was nearing its peak, and there was not a single cloud in the sky. The water around them was calm and the sound of gulls crooning above their heads filled the air. Iakov had forgone his sandals, and his hair, whipped into a dark mass of curls by the humidity and held in its haphazard place by the salt, was falling into his eyes. His arms and legs were steadily growing tan, and his brow was already slick with sweat. He was careful not to tangle the ropes, and made certain to braid it exactly like Wilson had shown him. He was doing rather well, actually, when a cry of alarm rang across the deck. He startled and saw Dugan, who had issued the cry, pointing in disbelief at the yardarm. Iakov's gaze followed in the direction he indicated, and his jaw dropped.

There was Stefanos securing the main sail, but he was hanging upside down from the yardarm like a bat.

Iakov's heart began to pound. He sat frozen to the spot as he watched Stefanos make quick work of finishing the knots.  _ He wears no harness. He… he wears no harness,  _ Iakov realized, and panic clogged his throat. He stood slowly, the rope slipping out of his lap, still staring up at Stefanos with wide eyes, silently begging him not to fall.

Stefanos swung himself upright and raised himself to his feet. Then he ran, and Iakov very nearly cried out himself, but he held his tongue. Stefanos ran the length of the yardarm with light, unfaltering steps, the sun turning his flaxen hair to spun gold. His arms were outstretched on either side of him, and he looked like a bird ready to leap off the edge of the yardarm and soar away. Iakov's heart was in his throat and suddenly, it was getting harder to breathe. 

Stefanos stopped at the crimson mainmast. He wrapped an arm around its girth to steady himself as he reached for the rigging with his free hand. Iakov sucked in a sharp breath, feeling his stomach turn horribly. A fall from this height would be a disaster to say in the least. Still he could not look away.

Stefanos grabbed onto the rigging with ease and let go of his hold on the mainmast, hips twisting away from it and swinging himself onto the crisscross of ropes. He climbed down the rest of the way, grinning like an idiot, and his grin rivaled the sun itself. His face was flushed from the heat and his hair hung loose around his shoulders. He was breathtaking. The men surged in around him, laughing and clapping him on the shoulders and calling him a madman. But Stefanos was staring right through the crowd at Iakov, who was still trying to quell the knot of worry in his chest. Stefanos crossed the deck to him and smiled pleasantly, as though he hadn't just risked his life.

"Did you like my little performance?" Stefanos asked.

Iakov raised an eyebrow. "I didn't realize it was one."

"Well, I'll be sure to tell you next time."

Iakov rolled his eyes and chuckled. "You know, when I said you were invincible…" he began softly, shaking his head at Stefanos, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "I meant it. I do not need evidence to support my own claim."

"That wasn't evidence," Stefanos replied, his grin turning coy, his voice low and sultry like the humid air at sunset. "It was a  _ reminder _ ." He smiled again, viciously, tauntingly, and his eyes glinted dark blue. He sauntered off, leaving Iakov standing on the deck slightly shell-shocked, and a quiet tingling underneath his skin.

Dugan saw the stunned expression on his face and winked at him, while Dernier gave him a double thumbs up. Iakov mouthed  _ fuck off,  _ turned on his heel, and headed below decks, his face flushing an embarrassing shade of red.

He curled up on his bunk, locking the door behind him and burying his face into his stiff pillow.  _ Stefanos, what are you doing to me?  _ he wondered to himself, groaning softly, clenching the coarse sheets in his hands.

He thought back to the conversation he'd had with Gabriel all those weeks ago, right off the heels of that fever. He had been so sure that day that he and Stefanos were brothers-in-arms and nothing more. But… were they really, when all Iakov could think about these days was Stefanos' kind eyes and his elegant hands and the secret, lazy smile he gave Iakov when they were alone? Stefanos was enough, it seemed, to throw Iakov's head into a myriad of confusing, slightly worrying feelings enveloped in firm, fond trust. It was being like ensnared inside a thick, warm blanket—he was unable to escape and at the same time unsure if he wanted to.

He heard the gentle sounds of water swishing against the hull of the ship and the creak of the wood above his head as people roamed about the deck. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, forcing his mind to go blank as he exhaled long and slow.

When he thought of Stefanos, he thought of the sea. Calm, composed, beautiful, and underneath its glittering surface simmered anger, powerful and dangerous, but no less beautiful. He thought of Stefanos, and he thought of molten gold, of fire, of the sun itself. There was light inside him, a wonderful, peaceful, radiant light that gave Iakov hope. Iakov felt… he felt alive, near him, fantastically and overwhelmingly  _ alive _ . It was an adrenaline rush better than any fight could give.

He thought of Stefanos, and thought about letting go. About saying goodbye. About never seeing him again. He thought of these things, and there was a horrible, uneasy twist in his gut. 

Stefanos had been through so much. He had lost so much. Iakov remembered with startling clarity the sorrow that burned deep and bright in his eyes when he had spoken of his friend, even after all these years. Despite it all, Stefanos found it within himself to be kind, and that in itself was something incredibly profound to Iakov. It made him feel as vulnerable and defenseless, like wax held to an open fire.

Everything about Stefanos made him feel like melting. He made Iakov feel like letting go of every ounce of anger and worry and fear in his heart, and allowing the liquid gold light of the sun to wrap around him and bring him peace.

Iakov's eyes opened slowly as a heavy, painless warmth began to swell up inside him. He felt calm then, a calmness like he hadn't felt before, and then he  _ knew. _

"I'm in love with him," he breathed to the darkness of his cabin, to the four walls and the door. His quiet voice sliced the silence like a sharpened blade. His heart kicked into a slightly higher rhythm as the words left his lips, but the moment he said them, he knew they were true. He knew it like he knew the weight of his kopis in his hands, like he knew his own name. "I'm in love with him," he said again, impossibly soft, and so powerful was the relief he felt that he almost cried right then and there.

The odd thing was that this revelation didn't feel as frightening or earth-shattering as it should have. It felt instead like the final puzzle piece was slotting into place. It was a sense of  _ ah, finally,  _ almost as though there was a part of him that had always been in love with Stefanos and the rest of him was only just catching up. It was a slight sense of bewilderment, too, mostly at why it had taken him so long to realize.

He refused to think of what might happen next, of what this could mean, of what Stefanos would say if he ever found out. He couldn't bear to. So instead he held onto the relief and the calmness and the perfect, perfect warmth spilling from his heart and between his ribs and let a small, perhaps sad smile tug at his lips.

Outside, a layer of thin and wispy clouds draped the azure sky, and the sea lapped at  _ Redwing _ 's sides, indifferent as ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> took us twelve goddamn chapters but we're here. we went the scenic route but we made it. the pining party begins.


	13. Chapter Thirteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Off the back of his world-altering revelation, Iakov finds himself easily distracted.

The next day Iakov was to meet with Stefanos to discuss their strategy for when they landed on Crete. Stefanos had the map spread out on the floor of his cabin, and he was saying something that was definitely important, but Iakov just couldn’t bring himself to pay attention. All his primitive brain was able to focus on was the way the early morning light caught in the golden-brown hair spilling down Stefanos’ shoulders, and how he would pull just the corner of his lower lip into his mouth when he was deep in thought, and how when he stretched his arms over his head and frowned down at the map, the hem of his chiton rode up his thighs a little.

It was maddening, to say in the least. It was as though a veil had been lifted from his eyes and he was seeing Stefanos differently. All of a sudden Iakov was hyper aware of even the most minuscule details about him, about his light, sweeping eyelashes, about every freckle scattered across the bridge of his nose, about the little green flecks in the blue of his eyes—

"Hey," Stefanos said softly, nudging Iakov with his foot. Iakov startled. "Where are you?"

"I'm… on your floor?"

Stefanos snorted. "I didn't mean it like that. Your head is… it is not in this moment, is it? You are worried about something."

"I am not worried."

"Well, you have that look on."

"What look?" Iakov touched his face self-consciously.

"Your worry face." Stefanos tilted his head. "You seem far away. Where are you?"

"I have a worry face? Do other people know about this?" Both hands came up to his cheeks. "How long has this been going on?"

"Iakov," Stefanos interrupted him, fingers curling around his wrists and pulling his hands away. "Something is on your mind. Do you wish to talk about it? We can attend to this later," he said, nodding to the map.

Surely Stefanos must have felt the erratic, almost violent staccato that Iakov's pulse was hammering underneath his skin, what with his fingers pressed to the bones of Iakov's wrists. Surely he would have felt it, and then he would have known Iakov's secret. Iakov wasn't ready for Stefanos to know, now or ever, for that matter. He couldn’t know. Did he? Panic crashed into him like a tidal wave upon the beach and he snatched his hands away. Stefanos frowned.

"I'm sorry, I… I have to go," he muttered, pulling himself to his feet and reaching for the door.

Stefanos looked confused and maybe a little hurt, and he had every right to be, but he was silent as Iakov fumbled through half-hearted apologies and all but fled the cabin, his heart in his mouth and gooseflesh prickling his skin. He felt the ghost of Stefanos' long fingers at his wrist, and he rubbed at the spot absently as he walked up the steps at the end of the corridor, somehow hoping he could rub the sensation away.

A tongue of embarrassment-fuelled fire ignited itself behind his sternum, and it grew and swelled until his lungs turned to ash, until his face was burning and blotchy red from it. He found himself pathetically wishing that he hadn't stood up when he did; wishing for Stefanos to tilt his head and smile in that secretive, liquid sunlight way that seemed to come so easily to him.  _ Should I have told him the truth? _

It was a bright day, and it felt like it was going to be a humid one, too. The sails reflected a sharp white glare, and he pushed all thoughts of Stefanos to the back of his mind. He walked right to the other end of the ship and found Falsworth splitting a loaf of bread with  _ Rumlow _ , of all people. Falsworth's dory was in his hands as he sharpened the point, and Rumlow was sitting cross-legged beside him, bent over a short, nasty-looking dagger, the leather handle of which he was replacing. They were engaged in low conversation, and Rumlow appeared amused.  _ Of course Falsworth would be the one to break Rumlow _ , thought Iakov.

“Morning,” he greeted them. “Would you mind if I joined you?”

“Not at all,” grinned Falsworth, then turned to Rumlow. “He gets irritable when we don’t spend enough time together,” he explained, and Rumlow nodded as though he had just been given life-changing advice, hiding a smile.

“Oh yes,” Iakov agreed, settling down beside Falsworth. “I can’t help it if I miss my strong, handsome Spartan warrior sometimes,” he said before pressing a loud, wet kiss to Falsworth’s cheek. Falsworth grimaced and wiped off his cheek on the hem of Iakov’s chiton. Rumlow grinned.

“So, what brings you here, beloved?” asked Falsworth, tearing off a piece of bread and handing it to Iakov, who accepted it gratefully.

Iakov couldn’t very well tell him that he had just run away from Stefanos because his feelings were getting too overwhelming for him to handle. “Nothing special. I just wanted to know if you were being a bad influence on Rumlow, or slacking off in general.” He turned to Rumlow. “Is he bothering you?”

“No more so than usual, Enomotarches,” Rumlow replied, the corner of his mouth pulling into a sly smile. “But I can always throw him overboard if he gets to be too much, can I not?”

“By all means. And don’t feel obliged to ask any of us permission to do; you have our wholehearted support.”

“I feel so special and loved,” Falsworth said dryly.

Rumlow laughed and Falsworth’s countenance brightened ever so slightly. Iakov chuckled and lay back on the deck, throwing an arm over his eyes. He listened to Falsworth and Rumlow’s banter, the sun beating down on them and the air tasting of the brine of the sea. 

He must have drifted off at some point, because he startled awake to the sound of a thousand armored footsteps filling the air. How long had he been asleep? He blinked hard and rubbed his eyes, and saw that Falsworth and Rumlow were gone, and so were their weapons. He glanced up at the sky, and his heart sank. The bright, blinding blue was quickly turning charcoal gray, the atmosphere laced with electricity. Iakov got to his feet and moved to the prow a few feet behind him, leaning over the lip. The sea had taken on a dangerous, dark color, and it was swirling and frothing, working itself into a rage. Lightning arced in the sky then, a bony white finger high above their heads, and at the same time not high enough.

“Brace yourselves!” bellowed Wilson, emerging from the captain’s cabin wild-eyed. He ran to the pair of powerful oars stationed at the stern, and Dugan, Dernier, and Morita were on his heels. They split into pairs and grabbed an oar each.

Iakov didn’t have time to brace himself as the first wall of water reared its dark head at half-mast height and slammed into  _ Redwing. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> remember how i said in the tags that if you squint real hard you can see mild falsworth/rumlow? i didn't even notice while i was writing but a friend pointed it out and now i can't unsee it and i honestly dont know how to feel about it. what have i done. im reporting myself to the police.


	14. Chapter Fourteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Redwing_ fights a storm.

_ I did not sign up for this _ , Iakov thought to himself as  _ Redwing  _ tossed and rolled about on the towering curls of seawater, sending her crew sprawling across the deck. Talons of rain cut through the air and slashed against the sails. A high, cold wind wailed relentlessly, but it could not drown out Wilson’s thundering voice as he roared instructions at Iakov and the others as they desperately tried to keep the ship afloat. The tides were high, and the water was a swirling, endless pit of blackness underneath the sky. They were enveloped in the thick of a storm, and Iakov’s eyes stung with saltwater as he struggled to wrangle the mainsail into submission.

The little vessel was being thrown around violently, and Iakov, clutching onto the frayed rope as he desperately tried to tug the mainsail down, couldn’t hold his ground for much longer. He scanned around him for help, and saw to his dismay that everyone who wasn’t manning the oars was busy heaving bucketfuls of water off deck to keep the vessel from sinking. Stefanos was on the yardarm of the top foremast, and this time he was wrestling with one of the smaller sails. Wilson had shouted for Iakov to secure the mainsail from below, and so he stood, straining to keep his balance like the first day he was on this boat and just beginning to find his sea legs.

Just when Iakov thought that the storm would rip the sail off the mast and take him with it, Rumlow appeared at his side. The Athenian grabbed the length of rope by Iakov's ankles, wound it tightly round his forearms and growled, “Pull!” over the howl of the storm. Iakov nodded and together, they pulled. His feet—bare because the storm had woken him from his sleep and he had not had the time to put on his sandals—slipped on the slick panels of the deck, but still he held his ground.

Suddenly there were white-hot needles of pain flaring up from his bad shoulder and pouring into his spinal cord.  _ Oh no, no no no. Not now. Please not now _ , he thought helplessly as his left arm grew more and more numb, his fingers growing slack around the rope and losing all sensation almost instantaneously. Iakov sucked in a sharp breath and winced as the joint of his shoulder locked sharply.

“What are you doing?” Rumlow yelled, looking over his shoulder at him, eyes wide.

“I can’t hold on!” Iakov replied as loud as he could, indicating his now immobile arm with a jerk of his head.

“You  _ must  _ or we will drown!”

But it was more than drowning, Iakov knew this. He knew that if the sail tore there was no way they’d make it to Crete before the Order, especially since the attack on their camp those many moons ago when Iakov received the wound that now bisected his side. The Order must know of their mission by now. If they were smart—and they were—they would have sent a party to intercept Iakov and his men. Now if the Brotherhood had any hope of securing the Tesseract, it rested with their swift arrival on Crete, and if the sail was lost, then… well, there was no hope left.

So Iakov gritted his teeth and screamed through the pain as he twisted his hips and pulled for all he was worth.

Things became a blur after that. He vaguely remembered finally getting the sail down, and then he remembered someone calling his name, and then being dragged somewhere that smelled like it hadn’t seen daylight in a long time.

The sensations stuck with him the most: cold, wet linen being peeled off his body, his left arm spasming uncontrollably, hands reaching out in the dark and steadying him, a choking fire flickering beneath his skin. He heard Gabriel and Dugan begging him to stay in his cabin and wait for the storm to pass, because he was injured and they could not risk losing him. He did not protest.

Iakov waited in the darkness of his cabin, his knees pulled up to his chest and his head in his hands. He hated being trapped down here while the others were up above keeping their charter afloat. He hated that he couldn't help. He hated being as useful as a… a wet blanket.

_ Don't think so harshly of yourself _ , a gentle voice chided him.  _ If you were able you would have helped, would you have not?  _ The voice sounded eerily like Stefanos'. Of course the voice of reason in his head would sound like—

Wait.

Stefanos… where was he?

Suddenly, terror seized Iakov by the throat, and he sat bolt upright in horror.

Stefanos was still on that yardarm, still trying to bring the sail down on his own.

For a brief, nightmarish moment, Iakov wondered whether Stefanos had survived. He hadn't even glanced up to check if the other was still holding on and untangling the smaller sail like Wilson had asked. He wondered if the storm had taken Stefanos, if he had lost his balance and been ripped from the rigging, never to be seen again. Then, even more sickeningly, he wondered if Stefanos had indeed been claimed by the storm, and if they would have to wrap his body in a sail and drop it into the frothing ink of the sea.

He cried out then, a terrified, whimpering noise, because Stefanos  _ had  _ to have survived. He simply had to. What was Iakov supposed to do without him? He was hit with a wave of nausea and he forced himself to calm down, hoping against all hope that Stefanos was alright.

Iakov pushed off the hard edge of the narrow bed he sat on and stumbled towards his door in the dark. He flung it wide open, and then he was in the corridor, both hands pressing against the walls on either side to steady him as the ship swayed violently. He began to walk on unsteady legs towards the steps at the far end, determined not to return until he had found Stefanos.

Suddenly, before Iakov could reach the end of the corridor, he saw a figure hurrying down the steps, drenched in the sea and the storm, and ghostly pale in the shallow lamplight. The figure raised its head and froze.

They stood several yards apart, each staring at the other in disbelief, until a bellow of thunder overhead snapped them out of their trance, and they ran. They ran right into each other's arms, and then there was a callused hand cupping the side of Iakov's face, and a forehead pressing to his.

"Oh, thank the gods,  _ Iakov _ ," said a voice, rough like two pieces of flint scraping together. Iakov pulled away, just a fraction, and—yes,  _ there  _ was the soft cornsilk yellow of his hair, and  _ there  _ was blue of his eyes, and  _ there  _ the slow curl of his lip as he smiled. Stefanos was here, really here, and Iakov's eyes grew wide. He gripped Stefanos' arm.

"You're  _ alive _ ," Iakov choked. There was no mistaking how thrilled he was. He laughed, and it came out like a relieved sob. "Stefanos, you're alive!"  _ Thank you. Thank you. Thank you for bringing him back to me _ , he thought silently to whichever higher power saw to keep this man safe.

"Are you alright? They… they told me you were hurt, and I thought the worst. I was so worried, Iakov, I thought—" he drew in a ragged breath, eyes clouded with fear. "Are you alright?" Stefanos traced the shape of Iakov's cheekbone and jaw with his fingers.

Iakov let his forehead drop to Stefanos' again. "I'm fine," he breathed. "I'm fine. What about you? I was coming up to find you. I remembered you up there, alone, and I… gods, Stefanos. I’m so sorry for leaving you. Now and—and earlier. I shouldn’t have run off the way I did."

“Why did you?” asked Stefanos quietly, and it was easier to talk to him in the dark, where Iakov knew he couldn’t see his feelings painted plainly on his face.

“I… I don’t know,” Iakov replied. He couldn’t tell Stefanos the truth. Not now. Not like this. Not when they could die at any second and his feelings could be misconstrued for some adrenaline-fuelled nonsense. Stefanos deserved more than that. He deserved more than the world and everything in it, but the world did not deserve him. He deserved much more than Iakov could give him.

Stefanos sighed. “Look, I… I apologize if I hurt you. Earlier. With anything I said. I didn’t mean to hurt you, you have to underst—”

“You could never hurt me.” Iakov hated that the idea even occurred to Stefanos. “Do you hear me? You are the last person who could hurt me. I trust you with my life.”

“If I had my spear right now I would have snapped you like a twig,” Stefanos mumbled into his shoulder after a long time.

“I don’t doubt it,” Iakov laughed weakly, before biting his lip. “Can you… can you forgive me?” he asked quietly.

The blue in Stefanos' eyes was blurred with tears. “There is nothing to forgive,” he answered, mouth twisting into a smile. Iakov held him close, and breathed him in. Rain, salt, linen, sweat. Iakov had never felt anything so profound as the relief that rocked into him over and over like the waves pounding the sides of the ship. The hard weight in his chest seemed to uncoil, slowly but surely. He held Stefanos tighter, and there they stood for a long time, clothes and hair dripping from the rain, but neither of them felt the cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *character develops loudly*


	15. Chapter Fifteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The company recovers from the storm. Stefanos finds Iakov on the prow.

The storm passed soon, but not soon enough. It was a large one, and took them an entire day and night's worth of battle to sail through. They weren't blown off their course too far, however, and Wilson assured them that  _ Redwing  _ could make up the distance quickly.

Iakov sat at the prow, leaning over the edge as far as he dared. He was hidden by top foremast’s sail; it had been lowered, and fell like a sweeping white curtain, sectioning off the prow where he felt comfortable enough to lay flat on his stomach. He stared down at the impossibly clear water swelling and cresting against the dark red of the hull. There were shoals of fish arcing through the water like knives, their scales winking silver in the sun. The long arms of seagrass far below the surface, silken and dark green, waved and rippled lazily with the current.

He breathed deeply, and the air filling his lungs was thick with salt and sunlight and the blue sky. He had not known before that these things had any sort of smell, but he knew now. He knew now that the sky smelled of hope and possibility and the wind that breathed life into  _ Redwing’s  _ sails brought with it the prospect of adventure, tangling into his hair and skirting across his skin like an overeager pair of hands.

He let his hand uncurl over the edge of the ship, his open palm limp against the wood. He couldn't reach the water without falling in, but the sea seemed to sense him. It pulled up a wave from its depths and cracked it against  _ Redwing,  _ rocking her hull, and the spray from the impact slicked Iakov's arm. He grinned to himself, bringing his hand up to his mouth to taste the salt on his fingertips.

Iakov rolled onto his back, and tilted his head sideways to look at the figurehead, a falcon with a beak of metal, its wooden feathers painted in red and white. It was beautifully carved, and Iakov could imagine it blinking to life and shaking out the tightness in its joints, before taking off from the prow in a single leap. Iron talons gleaming, curling, tucking against its body, the pushback causing the ship to rock and sway, and the beat of its powerful, wide-open wings as loud as an ironworker’s hammer in a forge. He could almost hear its shrill cry cutting through the unmoving air, echoing off of distant cliffs and shores. He could almost see the light turning its plumage to the oversaturated crimson of blood dripping off a steel blade, and the rich, vivid brown of the earth after rain.  _ Redwing.  _ The tips of its feathers dipped in the colors of war, the point of its beak sharpened to a spearhead.

The sail shifted then, and Stefanos was ducking underneath it, his expression curious. Iakov saw him and allowed his face to break into an easy grin, not bothering to sit up. The corner of Stefanos’ mouth lilted. “There you are. I was wondering where you had gotten to,” he said. His hair was pulled up today, into a knot at the top of his head, loose strands of gold falling in his eyes. His feet were bare. “Do you mind if I join you?”

“Not at all.” Stefanos sat down at Iakov’s right side, leaning against the prow where it curved up and jutted out over the sea as the falcon. The lazy smile on his face refused to unstick itself, and he was still smiling like an idiot up at Stefanos even after a full five minutes. He put a hand up to shield his eyes from the sun.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Stefanos asked amusedly, frowning just a little.

“I don’t know,” Iakov replied, and his voice had taken on a dreamy quality. He didn’t quite know what had come over him, but his heart was still ready to pound out of his chest at the thought that Stefanos had been looking for him. “Did you come here to gawk at me or was there a purpose?” he asked, a teasing edge to his voice, and Stefanos rolled his eyes.

“I wanted to see you. Sit in your company for a while. Is that reason enough?”

Iakov’s breath caught in his throat as he managed a nod. He tried his best to hide the fact that every vein in his body was suddenly pumping pure adrenaline, and he forced away every intrusive thought that ran through his mind—the shape of Stefanos’ mouth, the color of his lips, the freckles across his nose, the frown line between his brows,  _ gods help him  _ he was in trouble—because there was no point getting his hopes up, only to have them crushed. It just wasn’t worth it.

But this was Stefanos. It was  _ him.  _ It was dimples and freckles and bruised knuckles and pure light; a god wrapped up in golden skin and sinewy muscles, held together by prayer and power. Iakov watched Stefanos pick at the hem of his chiton and worry his lower lip. His eyes were trained on his hands. He looked small, soft in the glow of the sun, and his shoulders were rounded, eyes closed. His guard was down. It was a gesture of immense trust, and one that Iakov would never cease to be amazed by. Who was he, the most unworthy of men, to have Stefanos trust him so?

_ It would be a privilege to have my heart broken by you,  _ he decided, and the thought was like a cool ribbon of water winding between each of his ribs, soothing the deep ache that had begun to flare up behind his sternum.

They talked about the mission, and Stefanos changed the topic onto something less weighted when he asked about Iakov’s men. Iakov told him stories of some of the missions he had run with them. He told him about Morita’s love for the bow, and of Dernier’s love for the bottle. He told him about how Dugan had taken pity on him when he had first been indicted and showed him the ropes. He told him of the battles they had won and lost, of the nightmares, of the victories. He told him of quiet nights spent bandaging each other’s wounds, of the mornings when they would spar relentlessly till one or the other finally gave in. “That day that you and Rumlow first came to Sparta, Morita and I had been sparring,” he said, thinking back to the man he was then. How naive, how angry, and how troubled he had been. He almost pitied that version of himself, because that man had neither known Stefanos nor the sea. His life was better for knowing the both of them.

The tension was melting out of Stefanos’ shoulders as the day wore on. Iakov told him about the falcon, about it ripping away from the prow and soaring off into the unknown, and Stefanos had smiled. “Imagine being weightless and being carried by the winds. Imagine flying with the stars above and the clouds beneath you,” Iakov murmured, staring up at the sky that was slowly flushing with sunset. “Can you imagine being so… free?”

“The prospect seems rather daunting, does it not? To have the heavens laid out before you to come and go as you wished, and to do as you pleased?” Stefanos countered, and his words were soft and careful, as if Iakov’s answer mattered more than anything in that secret world hidden away behind the sail and surrounded on all sides by water and a sky that glowed pink.

“The fact that it is daunting is the root of its appeal, I think,” Iakov answered. “It is a terrifying notion, and that is in itself cause to do it. We are infinitesimal compared to the expanse of the sky, and yet we are powerful, because we are all small parts of a larger whole.”

“What of the repercussions?”

“Would you really care about repercussions when you could  _ fly _ ?”

“Alright, alright. I concede your point,” Stefanos laughed. Iakov grinned and laid back on the deck, hands tucked behind his head. Stefanos was a warm presence at his side, and he rested his weight on one hand, legs sprawled out in front of him. The sky was aflame, an explosion of cottony pink and orange and gold as the sun sank into the briny depths of the sea. The surface of the water glistened, and Iakov wondered about the fish he had seen earlier that day, and whether their scales would look pink in the fading light.

He felt Stefanos’ hand settle over his where it lay on the deck at his side, and he could feel the calluses and the scars of old battles on the otherwise smooth skin. He turned his hand palm-up, so that Stefanos’ fit into it neatly, perfectly. Almost as though this was how it was always meant to be.

He glanced over to gauge Stefanos’ expression, and he saw Stefanos staring down at their joined hands with undisguised longing written plainly on his face. Iakov knew that face, because it was exactly how he felt whenever he was around Stefanos.

Stefanos’ face reflected the sunset, much like the sea. He was awash in soft light, his sharp features made gentle and breakable, and wisps of his hair escaped the tie to fall against his neck and forehead. His eyes were pale blue sea glass smoothed by the tides. Iakov could not look away, no matter how hard he tried.

He began to ache then, a thick, tar-like ache that filled all the carefree places in his soul and dragged it down, down, down. His throat was tight, and slowly but surely it was becoming painful to breathe.

_ It would be a privilege to have my heart broken by you.  _

Iakov had meant it then, and he meant it now.

Stefanos’ eyes flickered to him, and they held each other’s gaze and hand for what seemed like an eternity compressed into a single second—too long and somehow not long enough.

The next moment, Stefanos was leaning over him slowly, and Iakov went still. He felt his exhales, short and hard, on his cheeks, and Stefanos’ eyes never left his once. Something changed in his gaze, and his eyebrows raised ever so slightly. Iakov felt his pulse in his throat, felt heat curling low in his belly, and his skin was alight. Stefanos’ tongue swiped carefully over his lower lip, full and red because he kept worrying it, and Iakov followed the movement with his eyes.

“Like I said,” Iakov breathed, managing to find his voice by some fantastic miracle, “it may be daunting, but that—that does not mean that you shouldn’t do it.”

That was all Stefanos needed, apparently, to let his eyes slide shut and brush his lips against Iakov’s.

It felt like something was exploding inside his chest. His bones turned to butter and he was glad beyond measure that he was lying down, because his legs wouldn’t have supported his weight if he wasn’t.

Stefanos pulled away just a fraction. “What of the repercussions?” he asked softly and breathily, his words carrying an undercurrent of terror.

“You are a stupid, stupid man to think that I care about anything more than you,” Iakov replied as he took Stefanos by the back of his neck and pressed their lips together. He could feel the curl of a grin against his mouth, and he couldn’t help but smile in return.

Stefanos held himself over Iakov’s body with a hand planted on the deck on either side of Iakov’s head. Iakov craned his neck up and sighed into Stefanos’ mouth, soft and wet and better than anything he could have dreamed of. Stefanos ran his tongue along the seam of Iakov’s lips, and then tilted his jaw to trace the length of Iakov’s tongue with his own. Iakov felt teeth graze his lower lip, and it was just like clamping your hands around a supernova. Iakov had been kissed perhaps twice or thrice in his life, but he had never been kissed like  _ this. _

Stefanos’ lips were soft and dry, and he tasted faintly like salt and like the wine from the skin he had shared with Wilson and Dugan that afternoon. Iakov made a low, keening noise in the back of his throat as he realized that he was  _ tasting Stefanos _ , that Stefanos was  _ licking his tongue, _ and he felt a shudder course through him. He had never been kissed quite so deeply, quite so perfectly, and yet it was the single most lewd thing he had ever felt, so much so that it made his whole body go weak. All the heaviness weighing him down and the tightness in his heart dissolved away in an instant. 

_ Is this what flying is like?  _ Iakov wondered faintly as Stefanos pulled away with a soft suck, his eyes half-lidded and a dazed smile playing on his lips. He rested his forehead against Iakov’s, his breaths coming in short and hard. He caught Iakov’s gaze and a brilliant kind of red filled his cheeks.

“So… that happened,” Iakov murmured, blinking slowly and giving his brain a moment to process the sudden overload of information.

“Was it okay? Me kissing you, is that alright?” Stefanos asked, and Iakov took some pride in noting that he sounded just as breathless, too. He could only nod in reply. He felt oversaturated, he felt lightning in his fingertips, he felt  _ invincible,  _ like he could take on an entire legion of soldiers and win. He felt limitless. He felt whole.

Stefanos laid down on his side, tucking himself close to Iakov’s body and resting his head on Iakov’s breastbone.

“The truth is that I’ve been wanting to do that for quite some time,” Stefanos admitted.

“Why now?” Iakov asked.

“It felt… right. It felt right. I saw you and I just  _ knew  _ that I had to kiss you. I think I would have kissed you yesterday if it had felt right, or the day before. There have been a million moments where I have wanted nothing more than to kiss you, but it just didn’t feel right to do it. Besides,” he added, maybe a little shyly, “I wasn’t sure before whether or not you would mind.”

“I meant it, you know, when I said that you’re a stupid man to think I care about anything more than you. I never knew how you felt about me, so I never did anything about it, and I never asked.”

“Oh, Iakov,” Stefanos sighed, tilting his chin to meet Iakov's gaze. “Forgive me for not making my own feelings known to you. I assumed they were clear, but I—I should have just told you.” His voice was sad, full of regret. “To think of all the time we lost."

"Well... we have time now."

Stefanos smiled, and it was brighter than the sun. "We still have to make up for it."

“I wouldn't be opposed to that,” Iakov hummed, pressing his lips to the corner of Stefanos' mouth. He tasted perfect, like blue skies and moonlit clearings and the promise of something new.

“Good,” laughed Stefanos, tilting his jaw so their mouths aligned. “Because I don’t intend to stop.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)


	16. Chapter Sixteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Surprises await on Crete.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> right off the bat i wanna say that this was a rollercoaster to write

Arriving on Crete, they paid Wilson for his trouble and had the contents of their bags searched. Finding nothing out of the ordinary, the port authorities let them go, and they decided on a campsite, a little way outside the city proper. Then they made their way to the market.

It was a scorching day, and Iakov pulled his hood low over his face to shield his eyes from the sun. The market was located in the heart of the city, and it was full of people. Stefanos was at his side, and their hands bumped as the throngs of people pressed in on them from all sides, although Iakov suspected with a small smile that maybe not all of those touches were accidental.

The market was a bustling, lively place. In the shops stood tall piles of spices, cloth, fermented drink, fresh bread, cured meat, oil, perfume, and dried fruit. The smell was _divine._ There were livestock vendors, people selling trinkets and oddities, flowers, and even books, and their voices carried over the shuffling footsteps of the crowd, mingling above their heads as a tangle of loud cries. The throngs of people in the marketplace kicked plumes of dust in the air, and the sound of bleating animals and laughing children added to the chaos.

They split up to purchase supplies for the journey, trading the goods they had brought from Sparta for other things, like fresh food and drink. Iakov wandered around alone aimlessly for a moment, losing himself in the sights and smells of the marketplace.

He came upon a stall helmed by a smiling, red-faced woman fanning herself, seated behind a table of jewelry. His eyes perused the wares lazily, and he was about to move to the next stall, when he caught sight of a necklace. He picked it up gingerly and studied it for a moment. It was simple enough: a plain black cord with a silver drachma pendant. A pegasus was inscribed on its surface, wings outstretched. Iakov ran the pad of his thumb across it.

“That’s a lovely one,” the woman said, and Iakov hummed. “Is there a girl in your life you’d like to give it to? I’m sure it would look beautiful on her.”

Iakov turned red almost instantly. He thought of Stefanos, and he wondered if he should give the necklace to him. Would it be too feminine? It didn’t particularly look it, but what if Stefanos took one look at it and laughed at him? Iakov shook his head, dispelling the thought. Stefanos wouldn’t laugh at him.

Then he wondered if it would be too sentimental, if it would be too awkward to give something like this so early in their… their what? Relationship? Iakov didn’t even know if they were formally courting or not. Their dynamic hadn’t changed. They still talked and teased and spent time with each other, except now Stefanos would slip into his cabin when the others were asleep and they would kiss and kiss and kiss. It felt like flying every single time. Iakov could never get bored of Stefanos’ perfect mouth, and he could never get bored of the soft noises Stefanos made when Iakov ran his hands through his hair or kissed a gentle trail down the side of his jaw. There was none of that in the morning, but there were secret glances that promised it later.

Iakov glanced around him to make sure none of his men were around to see, before he paid for the necklace and stuffed it into his satchel. “It really is a lovely necklace. I’m sure she’ll love it,” the woman said encouragingly, probably noticing that Iakov had grown nervous, all of a sudden.

Iakov smiled weakly. “Thank you. I… I hope so,” he replied, and left the stall, eyes scanning the crowd for a familiar face.

It was then that he noticed a man and a woman in long, dark cloaks advancing towards him, pushing through the swarm of people.

He frowned, then his eyes widened. _Hydra,_ he realized, and turned on his heel, trying his best not to look inconspicuous, his heart in his mouth. He kept his head bowed and his shoulders pulled up around his ears as he wove through the civilians, sticking one hand inside his satchel and his fingers closing around the handle of Morita’s knife. It was all he had on him, and he wore no armor underneath his cloak, just a chiton. His eyes darted amongst the crowd, frantically searching for Stefanos, Gabriel, Dugan—even _Rumlow_ would be a relief right now.

When his search came up empty, he sighed, resigned to his fate. He would have to take on those Hydra operatives alone. A subtle glance over his shoulder told him that they were still on his tail, but it seemed that they did not know that he knew about them. That was good. _Lead them away from the crowd,_ a voice told him. _Minimize civilian casualties._ He slowed his pace to make sure that they wouldn’t miss him, and trailed around the marketplace for awhile, his hand still curled around the knife. Then he slipped into an alleyway. Before long, he heard footsteps behind him.

“Lost, are we?” came a gruff voice. Iakov whirled around, drawing the knife from his satchel as he did, and lunged forward, slashing at the first figure he could see. The man leaned away and avoided the point of the blade, smiling coldly. He drew a xiphos from the sheathe at his hip and swung it in a sweeping arc at Iakov’s head. He parried the blow, but only just, and ducked as the xiphos came swinging back lightning-fast. He was forced to go on the defense with his comparatively shorter blade.

The man reared back and struck hard, Iakov’s knife meeting him halfway, and their blades crossed. The sound of screaming steel filled the air, and Iakov gritted his teeth as the man bore down on the xiphos with all his weight, attempting to knock Iakov’s knife out of his hands.

Suddenly, the woman appeared over her companion’s shoulder. She swept Iakov’s legs out from underneath him and Iakov fell, landing heavily on his back, his knife slipping out of his grip. She raised the xiphos in her hands above her head and brought it down between Iakov’s eyes, but before the point of the blade could make contact, Iakov kicked her in the stomach and rolled out of the way.

He had hit the back of his head when he fell, and black spots danced in his field of vision as he forced himself to his feet. The man was lunging for him, blade at the ready. Iakov ducked, but the man was upon him again, grabbing him by the front of his chiton and pressing him to the ground. His blade was at Iakov’s throat. “Where is that gods-forsaken map, boy?” he growled, pushing the point hard enough to just break skin. Iakov felt blood well up and trickle down his neck.

“I’d rather die than tell you,” Iakov snarled, before he slammed his forehead into the man’s nose. With a loud cry the operative released Iakov and stumbled backwards, clutching his face, blood spilling between his fingers. Iakov, still on the ground, reached for the xiphos that the man had dropped, but the woman kicked it aside. He drew himself to his feet, but the woman was charging him, a xiphos in each hand. Iakov had nothing. His knife was behind her; he could see it glinting on the ground beside the male operative, who was staggering to his feet, blood gushing from his disfigured nose and the front of his linothorax.

Iakov squared his jaw as he swerved to avoid the woman’s blades. She swung at him expertly, and his breathing was ragged when he threw himself to the ground, lunging beneath her xiphos and his hand closing around the leather of the knife. He twisted onto his back and slashed upwards at her, managing to catch the side of her face and cut open her cheek as he did.

She was surprised enough that she reared away, blood sluicing from the wound. The male operative was at her side, wild-eyed and furious. They blocked the mouth of the alley—the only exit, and Iakov readjusted his grip on the knife. He was beginning to tired already; he could feel the wound in his right side beginning to ache faintly. The world tilted on its axis ever so slightly, and he wondered if maybe he was a little concussed.

He had dropped the satchel at some point during the fight, and the bag had spilled its contents. Loose scraps of paper, a skin of water, an apple, and the little necklace he had wanted to give Stefanos littered the alley floor. Iakov’s eyes landed on the pegasus drachma, and suddenly he was filled with strength. He had to survive, if only to give Stefanos the necklace. He had to.

He ran, lips curled in a snarl. The man raised his xiphos, striding up in front of the woman and Iakov ducked before he drove the knife into the man's stomach, driving it through his linothorax, burying it to the hilt. The woman lunged at Iakov, but he was quicker. Iakov forced the man’s body in front of his like a shield, and then there was the sickening noise of the woman’s blade sinking into her companion’s back. Her eyes widened in horror.

Iakov pulled the knife out of him and the woman stumbled backwards as the body fell face-forward between them. Their gazes locked, Iakov wiped blood off his face that was not his own. The floor of the alley was splattered with sinister pools of crimson.

“Run,” he growled. She shot him a venomous, slightly fearful look, and darted to her feet, sheathing her blades before melting into the crowd.

* * *

“Iakov, where have you been?” asked Stefanos, hurrying to Iakov, who had limped back to their campsite outside the city. Dusk had fallen, and he had been looking over his shoulder as he walked, his knife bloodied and still in his hand, startling at every shadow because it might have been an operative out for revenge. The others, seated round the fire, sprang to their feet, eyes wide.

Iakov was breathing heavily, and he all but collapsed into Stefanos’ arms. He was exhausted, but Stefanos stood firm, supporting his weight easily. “Hydra knows,” he gasped, clutching Stefanos like a lifeline.

“What?” asked Dugan, coming up to sling an arm around Iakov’s waist and help Stefanos half-lead, half-drag him beside the fire and sit him down.

Stefanos lowered himself beside Iakov, so that Iakov could lean against his shoulder. “Hydra… Hydra knows," Iakov echoed. "They know of the map. They know we have it.”

“Are you sure?” came Falsworth’s voice, and he was pressing a water skin into Iakov’s hands. Iakov raised it to his lips and drank deeply.

“I am,” he said when he had finished. “Two operatives followed me into an alley in the market and attacked me. One of them asked where the map was.”

“And?” Falsworth prompted, brows drawn.

“I killed one. The other… I let her get away.”

Silence descended upon the camp.

“You did _what_?” Dernier gasped, jaw dropping.

Iakov winced. “I let her go. I—I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

Stefanos gripped his hand. “It’s alright. She wouldn’t have reported anything that they didn’t already know. We just...  have to be more careful from now on.” He turned to the others. “I suggest you all retire to your beds now, because tomorrow we head to the Tesseract site, and I need you all on high alert.”

Rumlow was stone-faced throughout the entire exchange, and he had not once looked at Iakov since the latter had arrived.

Iakov and Stefanos sat outside for a while after the others were gone and the fire was out. “Are you hurt?” Stefanos asked quietly, stroking his thumb across Iakov’s knuckles. Iakov shook his head. “Good,” Stefanos sighed. “That is good to hear.” They sat in silence, hand in hand, and Iakov’s eyelids were growing heavy. He was about to fall asleep, when he remembered the drachma necklace in his satchel.

“I have something for you,” he said, sitting up and rummaging around inside the bag for the necklace. Stefanos watched him with a curious smile on his face. He pulled the necklace out and, feeling his face flush with embarrassment, handed it to Stefanos, his gaze averted. Words began to spill from his mouth uncontrollably. “I, um, found it in the market. Today. I just thought it... it looked nice. And I thought you would like it. I don’t know. You don’t have to wear it. You—you don’t even have to take it, if you don’t want to, I mean. I understand. I—”

Stefanos kissed him softly, chastely. “Thank you, my love,” he said, and his expression was so open and full of fondness, that the tight knot in Iakov’s chest unraveled and he could breathe again. _My love._ Iakov felt a hot thrill of electricity spike down his spine, and he could feel his cheeks growing warm again. Stefanos was smiling, and his fingers were tracing the pegasus. “It’s beautiful.”

“Really?” Iakov sounded almost incredulous.

Stefanos nodded. “Really. In fact, would you mind…?” he trailed off, and then turned his body just so, handing the necklace to Iakov to fasten around his neck for him. He glanced at Iakov out of the corner of his eye as Iakov took the necklace and swept Stefanos’ hair over one warm, creamy shoulder.

He brushed his lips to the curve of Stefanos’ shoulder, simply unable to resist, breathing softly as he ghosted his lips across Stefanos’ skin to the nape of his neck. Iakov’s mouth shaped a slow kiss against the soft skin behind his ear, and Stefanos sighed. Iakov slipped the necklace over his head and fastened it carefully.

He smiled a small flicker of a smile. “What do you think?” Stefanos asked after he had pushed himself to his feet and helped Iakov do the same.

“Suits you,” Iakov replied, and Stefanos turned faintly pink, smiling as he did.


	17. Chapter Seventeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The journey comes to an end**
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> 
> **or does it?

The map led them deep into the jungle on Crete. They traveled on foot, blades drawn and alert for anything suspicious. These two encounters with Hydra were not coincidence, and they could not afford to take any chances. They did not stop for rest until nightfall, and by then they were too exhausted to do anything but sleep soundly. Their lookout watch had longer rotations, and their legs were aching soon, but they knew that complaining did none of them any good. They were fighting for something much bigger and more powerful than themselves. They soldiered on.

They walked for days, farther and farther away from civilization, the jungle hot and humid and creaking beneath their sandalled feet. Iakov caught sight of a flash of silver from the drachma round Stefanos’ neck now and again, and his heart leapt every single time.

Suddenly, they came upon a wide, deep clearing at dawn, and it was filled with piles of sand-colored buildings that had been torn to the ground. It was rubble stacked vaguely on top of each other, and broken pieces of wood and brick were scattered everywhere. There were halved pillars and caved-in roofs. Everything was rounded and made blunt by years of weathering, and it was all overgrown with moss and jungle vines. Bright clusters of sweet-smelling flowers spilled out from crumbling windows, and ferns sprung up between cracks in the road.

The strange thing was the scorch marks. Deep and black like they were drawn with coal, and radiating outward from a flat, circular stone at the center of the ruins, set firmly in the ground, untouched by Kronos and Gaia’s hands. The stone was engraved with inscriptions that were not in any language Iakov knew, but the center of the map displayed a drawing of a stone that looked just like it.  _ This is it,  _ Iakov thought. All these months of travel and fighting, his entire  _ life  _ in fact, led up to this moment. He was wary for any Hydra operatives that might jump out at them, however, and had both his kopis in his hands. Morita’s knife was tucked into his belt.

Stunned by the sight in front of them, the Assassins picked their way through the wreckage carefully and headed for the circular stone. Their ears were pricked for any sounds out of the ordinary, but so far, there were none.

They stood around the stone and stared down at it. Stefanos frowned at the map. “What now?” asked Falsworth quietly.

“It doesn’t say,” Stefanos replied, pursing his lips. He glanced around at the others. “Does anybody have any suggestions?”

The Assassins fell silent as they contemplated this. They were here, right where the map had directed them. The map was a map to the Tesseract, and therefore the Tesseract must be here as well. But… where?

“Did we really come out all this way with no backup plan?” asked Dernier, incredulous.

“That is not helpful,” Gabriel chided.

“Well, I’m sorry, but I’m just being realistic. How are we supposed to protect it from Hydra if we can’t even find it?”

“Nobody said this was going to be easy,” Dugan began.

“Oh, of course." Dernier rolled his eyes. "We all nearly died multiple times, but  _ this  _ is the difficult part.”

“Dernier, I swear to Hades—”

“Wait, hold on. What is this?” asked Dugan, frowning at a part of the engraving in the center of the stone that appeared slightly more raised than the rest. He knelt down and pressed it.

The sound of crunching bone filled the air as the stone Dugan had just touched sank slowly into the ground. He drew his hand back sharply. There were more stones like the raised one that had just disappeared. These slightly raised stones forming a ring around the center. The Assassins pushed down on a stone each, and every single one groaned loudly as it sunk into the earth. The noise was absolutely deafening. Soon there was an empty ring around a small, unmarked circle at the center. Falsworth, frowning, tapped it with his foot. Nothing happened. “Well, that was a good waste of time,” Falsworth remarked, hands on his hips.

No sooner did the words leave his mouth than the stone they stood upon gave out under their feet, and they were falling down, down, down into an endless tunnel of darkness, their startled shouts echoing endlessly. They landed in a heap on a sandy floor, the only light coming from the circular opening they had just fallen through, which now looked no bigger than a window. Groaning as they pulled themselves to their feet, the Assassins squinted into the darkness around them, looking for a way out.

“Does anybody see any stairs?” joked Falsworth.

“Now is really not the time, Falsworth,” Gabriel sighed.

Something flickered in the distance. It was small, but it was glowing electric blue, and steadily growing brighter.

“Is that…?” asked Iakov, staring at it, hardly daring to believe his eyes. He had only heard stories of it. About how bright it was, how perfectly formed, how beautiful, how dangerous. How it granted its wielder immeasurable power, how it could rip holes through the fabric of the universe itself. He never believed any of it until now, when he was standing no more than twenty feet away, and its power made the very air vibrate.

They walked towards the light slowly, cautiously, huddled together so that they might not get lost. As they drew nearer, the air grew colder and colder, and Iakov slipped his hand into Stefanos’, who squeezed back comfortingly. He clenched his teeth to keep them from chattering. 

They stopped in front of it, each one of the Assassins bathed in its eerie blue light, shivering as they stared at the cube. There was something inside it, burning and pulsating, and Iakov was suddenly afraid to touch it, afraid to even be this close to it. He could not look away.

“We found it,” said Stefanos quietly, voice shaking with awe. “We found it.”

Suddenly Iakov felt something sharp dig into the base of his skull. “Thank you,” said a low voice, “for leading me right to it. I’m sure my higher ups will be thrilled.” Iakov felt the blood in his veins chill to ice. He turned around slowly.

The light of the Tesseract illuminated the faces of a horde of men in the robes of the Order of Hydra. One of the operatives had his xiphos at Iakov’s throat, and a glance around him revealed that each of his men were being held at knifepoint as well. And at the front of the swarm of Hydra operatives, lips twisted into a cruel smile as he pressed the tip of his blade to Stefanos’ chest, was—

“Rumlow,” Iakov breathed, eyes wide.

“I want to say that I’m sorry for this, but...  I’m not,” Rumlow said, shrugging.

“You betrayed us,” said Stefanos, shock written plainly across his face.

“Your first mistake was trusting me,” Rumlow replied.

It was Falsworth who growled menacingly then. “You will pay  _ dearly _ for this, you two-faced son of a—”

Rumlow held up a hand to stop him. He eyed the captured Assassins for a moment, before letting his gaze sweep across Stefanos and Iakov. He let the arm pointing the blade to Stefanos’ chest drop to his side.

“These men are of no use to us anymore,” he declared, grinning lazily, dangerously, his dead black eyes boring into Iakov. “Kill them.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who read this! It means the absolute world to me. This was a major labor of love and there were so many wonderful people involved in the making of it and I can't even express how grateful I am to them. As always comments and kudos are deeply appreciated, and I hope you all loved reading this as much as I loved writing it.
> 
> Cheers!


	18. Art for The Sins of Our Fathers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> art made by the wonderful [inflomora](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inflomora/profile) that inspired this story.


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